The Professional

The ruthless businesswoman

Alexander's POV:

There is a slight fluttering in the pit of my stomach as I watch Artemisia Stark cross the hushed expanse of the restaurant. She is wearing a grey silk blouse that billows just enough as she practically huffs her way over to the private booth I reserved at the infamous Italian place I knew she liked.

"What is the meaning of this?" She hisses, clamouring into the seat across me. I knew she would be angry, but I risked her anger for the chance to see her in this particular setting – and it was utterly worth it. Watching her discomfort in such an intimate setting is endearing – in fact, there isn't much about Artemisia Stark that isn't endearing.

"Quit staring and spill your intentions, Ivanov."

"I apologise, Miss Stark, I just thought it would be better to get to know each other in a less formal setting than your boardroom."

"Get to know each other?" Artemisia glares whilst taking a sip from her champagne flute cautiously. "Why on earth would I want to get to know you?"

"We are business partners after all, and I don't happen to invest money into people whom I barely know."

Not that I didn't attempt to find out, but unlike other clients and partners I'm accustomed to, Miss Stark proved to be difficult prey. She barely attends social events, her family name originates from Eastern Europe and there is no record of education or employment in this country whatsoever. Her media presence is even more dismal – hardly any pictures in press besides a lone red carpet she attended for a charity, and no mention in any other outlets besides financial publications.

It is as though Artemisia Stark – before Stark industries, and besides Stark industries – is nothing but a figment of her own making. She is a control freak – that is possibly the only fragment of information I can confirm about this impossibly beautiful woman.

"My name is Artemisia Stark – that's all you need to know."

I frown at the tone of her voice. I knew she'd be angry at my impromptu – and albeit, slightly inappropriate – dinner request, but as I glance over her flushed face, I realise she is seething.

Fuck, she's hot when she's angry.

Shaking away the millionth pubescent thought I've had since laying eyes on Miss Stark, I bring myself to as much of an equilibrium as I can manage around her.

"Spare me the torture of small talk, Miss Stark," My tone is harsher than I intended, but admittedly I'm upset that she isn't reciprocating my enthusiasm about the proximity of this atmosphere. The table is small enough to feel her knees brush against mine, and my cock hardens a little more every time she makes a movement. "All I'm asking is for is an hour of your time, in return for the millions of dollars my company will be investing into your project."

"Our project now – " She corrects, with a scathing glare. Jesus, Artemisia Stark can hold anger like a grenade. "And, if it's a prostitute you're looking for, I don't work in that line of business anymore I'm afraid."

What the fuck?

It takes me a moment to process her words, and maybe it's the shock on my face that spurs her pity.

"Fine Ivanov, ask me what you want. You have thirty minutes."

"Hey, that's all I need." I wink suggestively, immediately regretting my action as she visibly cringes. What is wrong with me? Five minutes in her presence and my body is acting as though I haven't laid eyes on a girl for several years.

"What do you want to know?" Gingerly, she takes fried ravioli from the sharing plate I ordered for us, and looks up into my eyes confidently. Somehow I can sense the false bravado, sense the tremor of fear beneath the brazen of her dark eyes.