And making me feel tired.
"Know what?" he asked.
"What I like to drink? What Trey's name is?"
He inhaled deeply, and then pulled away. Setting his drink down, he shifted on the sofa and drew a knee up onto the cushion between us so that he faced me directly.
His arm once again draped over the sofa back, his fingertips drawing circles on the curve of my shoulder. "You visited another of my clubs earlier. Your credit card popped and your drinks were recorded.
The room spun. No way…My cell phone. My credit card. My fucking apartment. I couldn't breathe. Between my father and James Thomson, I felt claustrophobic.
"Emmy. Jesus. You're white as a ghost." He shoved a glass into my hand. "Drink."
It was the Stoli and cranberry. I pounded it, draining the tumbler. My stomach churned for a moment, then settled. "You own the building I live in?" I gasped.
