Fluent.
She thanked him and began describing the wine pairing in Japanese, including the prefecture of the small-batch sake the restaurant had brought in specifically for the delegation and the reason the chef had chosen it with the first course.
Whitmore watched.
At first he grinned.
Then the grin became uncertain.
Naomi finished.
Chairman Ishikawa gave one small nod.
“Your Japanese is excellent.”
Whitmore laughed.
“Come on.”
Naomi looked toward him.
“What?”
“That could be memorized.”
Chairman Ishikawa’s eyes moved toward Whitmore.
The millionaire did not notice the warning.
Naomi had dealt with men like him before.
The mistake was thinking every escalation required participation.
She lowered the tray.
“I’m going to finish service.”
Whitmore reached across the table and shoved the side of the tray with his palm.
The crystal glasses jumped.
One tilted dangerously.
Naomi caught the tray before anything fell.
A fork struck porcelain.
The sound was small.
The room became quiet anyway.
Whitmore smiled.
“There. Now you’re listening.”
Naomi looked at his hand.
Then at him.
“Please don’t touch the tray again.”
“Oh, relax.”
“You could have broken the glass.”
“I would have paid for it.”
That sentence told her almost everything.
He believed payment was the same as permission.
Naomi straightened the decanter.
Whitmore tapped the envelope again.
“Here’s the deal.”
“There is no deal.”
“Two hundred fifty thousand dollars if you can hold a real conversation with him.”
Naomi stared at him.
“And if I cannot?”
Whitmore laughed.
“You admit you were performing.”
“I never asked you to believe me.”
“That’s the fun part.”
He pulled a pen from his jacket.
Signed something inside the envelope.
Then pushed it across the table.
“Quarter-million.”
Naomi did not touch it.
Several diners were openly watching now.
One man had his phone angled discreetly against his water glass.
Another woman had stopped eating.
Daniel Preston finally moved.
He took two steps toward the table.
Naomi looked at him once.
Not yet.
She could handle this.
Whitmore leaned forward.
“What?”
“You scared?”
“No.”
“Then prove it.”
Naomi glanced toward Chairman Ishikawa.
His hands rested loosely near his teacup.
His face remained composed.
But something in his gaze had changed.
He was no longer watching Whitmore.
He was watching Naomi.
Not to test her language.
To see what she would do with humiliation.
Naomi turned to him.
In flawless formal Japanese, she said:
“Chairman, would you prefer that I continue describing the dinner, or would you like me to translate the remarks Mr. Whitmore made about you before I arrived at the table?”
The entire table froze.
Whitmore’s smile disappeared.
Chairman Ishikawa’s eyes sharpened.
One of the Japanese executives at the far end slowly put down his glass.
Naomi continued, still in Japanese.
“He seemed to believe you did not understand English.”
Whitmore pushed back from the table.
“What did you say?”
Naomi looked at him.
“You asked me to have a real conversation.”