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any interest in him. His past was not normally up for discussion, but she needed to hear it, obviously. “Yes, I did. Does that shock you?”
    â€œNo.” She delicately dabbed at her mouth with a linen napkin. “I find it fascinating. Will you tell me the whole story? No doubt there’s more to it than what I’ve heard.”
    Fascinating? “I’m not certain this is suitable dinner conversation.”
    She cocked her head. “Would you rather discuss the weather? Or perhaps the latest fashions on the Ladies’ Mile?”
    â€œGod, no,” he murmured. “I was twelve when I left for Pittsburgh.”
    â€œAnd you grew up downtown?”
    â€œYes.” He clamped his jaw shut. That portion of his life was closed off for good, no matter who asked.
    â€œAnd you found work in a mill. What was it like?”
    He thought for a moment. “Grueling. Twelve-hour shifts, seven days a week. No breaks or even time to eat. What I remember most is the sweat. You’ve never imagined anything like the heat inside a steel mill. I lost twenty pounds in the first three months I worked there, which is quite a bit on a paper-thin twelve-year-old boy.” All day long the sweat had run down his arms, his legs, and collected in his boots. Emmett hated to feel that way now, with perspiration clinging to his clothes and skin.
    â€œHow did you come to purchase it, then?”
    â€œI was injured, and the company gave me a small settlement, which I successfully invested a few times over. Came to New York, started playing the market. In four years, I had enough to buy the mill.”
    â€œAnd East Coast Steel was born.”
    The tone of her voice, it sounded like admiration . . . when it should have been revulsion. She’d romanticized something truly awful and hideous in his past. If she had any idea of the things he’d done in his life, the things he’d seen . . .
    The waiter arrived with more food, this time a baked salmon with dill sauce. Emmett pretended to attend to his dinner while his thoughts churned.
    Elizabeth Sloane thoroughly confused him. Why wasn’t she uncomfortable dining with him? At the very least, she should have taken stock of the room to see who would be spreading gossip tomorrow. But she hadn’t assessed their fellow diners once that he’d noticed. Instead, she’d stared at his lips and peppered him with questions on his past. What the hell was happening here?
    He never misjudged people. The ability to read others, to know what they were thinking, had made him a millionaire many, many times over. He knew what investors needed to hear in order to hand over their money. Or what workers needed to hear in order to avoid labor strikes. So why couldn’t he figure out one high-society princess?
    He searched for an impersonal topic. “Would you care to discuss your progress on our wager? I’m curious as to how you’re doing after a few days.”
    â€œI haven’t invested the money yet. I have been working on a plan.”
    â€œStocks take time to mature, so that must mean you’re hoping to capitalize on a one-day swing.” He whistled. “You are either very confident or very foolish.”
    â€œTime will tell.” She threw him an enigmatic smile and picked up a bite of salmon. He watched, mesmerized, as she slipped the piece in her mouth and then her pink tongue emerged to clean the dill sauce from the corner of her lips. His groin became heavy, his trousers growing tight. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Did she have any idea the eroticism of such a gesture?
    â€œWhat’s the largest amount of money you’ve made on the exchange in one day?” she asked, thankfully distracting him.
    â€œAlmost five hundred thousand. But that was in the panic of ’73.”
    Her eyes grew wide. “That’s impressive. You must know quite a bit about stocks.”
    â€œI do.”
    â€œWhat was the