Chapter 1 - The Wrong Man at Table Nine
Lydia Bennett had spent two hours making herself ugly.
Roman Mercer needed eleven seconds to prove she had wasted her time.
The oversized glasses had been her favorite part of the disguise.
They belonged to an old theater costume box she'd found at a thrift shop on Twenty-Third Street, with thick brown frames wide enough to make her eyes appear smaller. She had deliberately rubbed fingerprints over the lenses.
Her dark hair had been flattened against her scalp and twisted into a lifeless knot.
The brown cardigan swallowing her body was two sizes too large.
Underneath it, the mustard turtleneck scratched her neck every time she swallowed.
She hated the thing.
Which meant it was perfect.
Because Lydia Bennett had not come to Bellamy's to be attractive.
She had come to survive dinner.
Her father owed Carter Voss $240,000.
That single number had been sitting in the center of Lydia's life for seventy-two hours like a bomb nobody knew how to disarm.
Gary Bennett had called her at 2:13 three mornings earlier.
His voice had been wet with tears.
“Please, Lyd. Just dinner. Carter says Tyler's interested in you. If the boy likes you, maybe they'll give me another ninety days.”
Lydia had stared at the ceiling of her tiny apartment while listening.
Her first thought had been that her father was crying.
Her second was that she no longer cared enough.
That frightened her more than the debt.
Once, Gary Bennett's tears could make her abandon anything.
Work.
Sleep.
Boyfriends.
Savings.
Common sense.
For ten years, his emergencies had been the weather system around which Lydia organized her entire life.
Sports bets.
Poker.
Underground games.
Cash advances.
Promises.
Apologies.
More promises.
After her mother died, Gary had turned grief into a permission slip.
Lydia had paid the electric company after he gambled away the utility money.
She had covered his rent.
His insurance.
His groceries.
Once she'd survived nine days on canned soup because Gary had somehow obtained access to her checking account and emptied it.
And every time she swore it would be the last.
Every time she remembered the father who once carried her through a county fair because her feet hurt.
The father who stayed beside her hospital bed when she broke her wrist at twelve.
The father she had loved before desperation turned him into a stranger.
So she had agreed to dinner.
But Gary had never said she needed to look good.
That part belonged to Lydia.
Or, more accurately, looking terrible did.
If Tyler Voss wanted a woman he could use as leverage against her father, Lydia intended to become the least appealing woman in Manhattan.
Then she'd go home.
Maybe Tyler would tell Carter Voss he wasn't interested.
Maybe Gary would get his ninety days another way.
Maybe Lydia could finally stop being everyone's currency.
That was the fantasy.
Then the host at Bellamy's said:
“Mr. Mercer, your guest has arrived.”
And Lydia's plan collapsed.
She stopped beside the curved leather booth.
The man sitting there was definitely not Tyler Voss.
Roman Mercer looked like somebody had taken the polished surface of Manhattan wealth and placed something considerably darker underneath it.
Broad shoulders filled a charcoal shirt.
The upper buttons were open.
Dark tattoos rose from his chest and disappeared beneath the fabric, then reappeared along powerful forearms.
A thin scar crossed one eyebrow.
Another vanished beneath his collar.
He wasn't doing anything.
That was the unsettling part.
Men like Tyler Voss performed importance.
Roman Mercer simply possessed it.
Lydia had heard his name before.
Everybody in certain corners of New York had.
Mercer Freight.
Mercer Development.
Mercer Maritime.
Warehouses.
Construction.
Imports.
Security.
The newspapers called him a businessman.
People who knew better lowered their voices before saying his name.
Gary had once given Lydia only one piece of advice about him.
Never owe Roman Mercer.
Unfortunately, apparently, Gary had found a way to get close.
“Sit down, Ms. Bennett.”
Roman's voice was low and calm.
Lydia didn't move.
“I'm supposed to meet Tyler Voss.”
“Tyler isn't coming.”
“Why?”
Roman picked up his water glass.
“He and I disagreed about money.”
There was something in the way he said it that made Lydia suddenly remember the frightened expression on the host's face.
She folded her arms.
“And where is he?”
“Elsewhere.”
“That sounds suspiciously vague.”
“It was intended to.”
Lydia stared.
Roman drank his water.
He looked entirely unbothered.
She hated men who weaponized silence.
It made her want to fill it.
She refused.
Finally Roman placed the glass down.
“Your father's account was one of Tyler's.”
That did it.
Lydia sat.
Not gracefully.
She dropped onto the opposite side of the booth, grabbed the bread basket, tore off the biggest piece available, and took a ridiculous bite.
If this man had somehow inherited Tyler Voss's interest, she'd kill it immediately.
“So what now?” she said around the bread. “You collect his debts?”
Roman watched her chew.
“Yes.”
Lydia took another exaggerated bite.
“And I assume you're expecting me to beg.”
“No.”
That answer irritated her.
She wiped crumbs onto her cardigan.
“Aren't you going to tell me that's rude?”
“No.”
She slouched.
Roman's gaze moved slowly across her.
Hair.
Glasses.
Sweater.
Then lower.
Her hands.
His eyes stopped.
Only for a second.
Lydia noticed.
Her fingers instinctively folded beneath the cuffs of her cardigan.
Roman's gaze lifted again.
Something close to amusement touched his face.
Lydia's stomach tightened.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You looked at my hands.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
Roman leaned back.
For the first time, Lydia felt as though she wasn't sitting across from a man interested in her father's debt.
She felt examined.
Not physically.
Intellectually.
As though Roman Mercer had just discovered an inconsistency in a financial report.
“Your hair says you don't care how you look,” he said.
Lydia blinked.
“Your glasses say the same.”
She said nothing.
“The sweater certainly says it.”
“Maybe I like brown.”
“No one likes that brown.”
Despite herself, Lydia almost smiled.
She killed it immediately.
Roman continued.
“But your hands disagree with everything else.”
Lydia looked down.
They were ordinary hands.
At least she thought so.
Short nails.
No polish.
A faint burn mark on her thumb from a coffee machine at work.
“What exactly are my hands saying?”
“That you planned this.”
Her heartbeat changed.
Roman leaned slightly forward.
“You damaged everything you could alter quickly.”
His eyes went toward her hair.
“Grease washes out.”
Then her glasses.
“Those aren't prescription lenses.”
Lydia froze.
“You can't possibly know that.”
“The reflection is wrong.”
His gaze dropped toward the cardigan.
“Cheap sweater. Awful color. Shoes intended to make your walk less graceful.”
Her face warmed.
Then he looked at her hands again.
“But you forgot one thing.”
“What?”
“People who genuinely don't care about themselves don't usually scrub onion smell onto their wrists.”
Lydia stopped breathing.
Eleven seconds.
He really had destroyed two hours of work in eleven seconds.
Roman smiled.
Not broadly.
That somehow made it worse.
“You worked very hard on the costume, Ms. Bennett.”
Lydia put down the bread.
“Fine.”
Her normal voice returned.
No nasal accent.
No exaggerated chewing.
No slouch.
“Congratulations.”
Roman's eyebrow lifted slightly.
“You've discovered I don't usually dress like somebody's substitute algebra teacher.”
“I suspected.”
“And?”
“And nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“I was curious.”
“About what?”
“Why you were so determined Tyler Voss wouldn't want you.”
Lydia stared directly at him.
“You already know.”
“I know your father's version.”
A cold feeling traveled through her.
“My father's version?”
Roman rested one hand on the table.
“He says you volunteered.”
Lydia's expression vanished.
For several seconds, the restaurant seemed to lose sound.
“What?”
Roman watched her carefully now.
“He told Tyler you were willing to become part of the arrangement.”
“No.”
“He said you understood the terms.”
“There were no terms.”
Roman's eyes hardened slightly.
Lydia leaned forward.
“My father told me I was having dinner with Tyler. That's all.”
Roman said nothing.
“He said if Tyler liked me, Carter might give him another ninety days.”
Still nothing.
She felt sick.
“What exactly did Gary tell them?”
Roman looked toward her clasped hands.
Then back at her.
“He told Carter Voss that if the debt disappeared, you would marry his son.”
Lydia stopped moving.
The candle between them flickered.
Outside, Manhattan glittered through the windows.
Inside, something in Lydia broke very quietly.
Her father hadn't sent her to dinner.
He had sold her.
And Roman Mercer had known before she walked through the door.
But that wasn't the worst part.
Roman reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and placed a folded document on the table.
“There is one other problem.”
Lydia stared at it.
“What?”
Roman pushed it toward her.
“Your father didn't owe Carter Voss two hundred forty thousand dollars.”
Her eyes lifted.
Roman's expression had become completely serious.
“He owed him twenty-four thousand.”
Lydia's blood went cold.
“Then where did the other two hundred sixteen thousand come from?”
May you like
Roman looked at her for a long moment.
“That's what somebody was hoping you would never ask.”
