Spencer cared little. He was thinking about something he’d seen once in a bar in Highland Park. He’d been drinking with two suits. At the end of the evening, one had said his goodbyes and stepped straight into a chauffeur-driven Phantom. The remaining suit had laughed at Spencer’s expression and then talked about how the other guy had been a high-level exec one minute, then jobless, divorced, and broke the next, with a kid from a previous marriage to support. Things were desperate. On hearing about a senior position going, he’d just gone to the office instead of applying, with his kid. They’d sat in the reception area and waited to see the chairman. They’d waited all day, because the chairman had forgotten his assistant had told him someone was there. The chairman eventually came out to go home and found this one guy waiting. The guy said he wanted that job. The chairman saw something in him—­desperation, sure, but the sort that breeds determination. And now Spencer felt he was that guy. This was his moment.

After twenty minutes, McGrath’s door opened and Johnny Boy escorted the twitchy guy out and through reception. Spencer nodded at them both. The guy ignored him, couldn’t wait to get away.

Spencer had just had his second look at Max Petrovsky. One day, his life would depend on him getting a third. But he had no way of knowing that then.

“An unexpected pleasure, Spencer.”

Spencer turned in his seat. McGrath stood before him offering his hand. He wore a crisp white shirt, dark tie and cufflinks, expensive, subtle cologne, and that smile with its welcome to wealth and wickedness. Spencer stood and returned the handshake and the smile without even being aware of doing so, heedless of the spell he was falling under, again.

“Come on in and let’s catch up.”

As McGrath passed the woman, he stopped and put his hand on her desk where she’d see it in the periphery of her vision. He waited to allow her to choose her own moment when she’d be able to handle two phones and give her boss some attention. A few more quiet words into the phone at her ear and then she looked inquiringly up at McGrath.

“Tell Cal to wait, Sheila.”

Sheila nodded.

Even in his own hyperfocused state, it occurred to Spencer that McGrath wasn’t playing the big, slick businessman. He really operated with a powerful but even-paced control. Spencer suspected a lot of women liked Dominic McGrath. For a moment, it awed him, and then he rallied, the artificial fuel additive pulsing through his system, inspiriting him to welcome the coming challenge.

So . . . great, I’ve come to the right guy.