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Ignoring everything I’ve said, he instead waves his hand toward an empty chair, his glare never leaving mine. “Ah, here you are. We’ve been waiting for you.”
“Why in the world would you wait for me? I’m not now, or ever, having a meal with you, and especially not in my restaurant. I don’t eat with criminals.”
The small smile doesn’t leave his lips, but I see a new warning glint in his gaze. My words have hurt him.
Good. I need to keep reminding him he doesn’t have all the power in this business arrangement.
Dex finally breaks our showdown, glancing at the woman still sitting silently, before returning his cool gaze to mine. “Katja, may I introduce to you Marcia Littleton, editor and chief of Lifestyle Magazine.” His voice is chilly, dousing my heated fury from minutes before as his words sink in. “Marcia wanted to spend some time with you. She’s hoping to make The Whitney the cover story for their October issue.”
Lifestyle Magazine. Editor. The Whitney.
Fuck.
I don’t look at her. I can’t. A new level of humiliation sinks its claws into me when I realize how rude I’ve been. Usually the queen of etiquette, I stand frozen, my tongue tied in knots. Under normal circumstances, I might be able to recover, but absolutely nothing in my life has seemed normal since Tristan died in room 1028 with his dick inside another woman.
I feel a wave of panic approaching. Coming downstairs was a mistake. I need to retreat.
Dex pushes to his feet just as I start to feel lightheaded. I step back when he reaches out to me, spinning around to march away from him, trying not to run from the restaurant. At the entrance, I crash into the hotel manager, Peter.
“Oh! I’m so sorry, Ms. Belov. I was looking for you. Are you okay?”
He tries to hold onto me, but I shrug loose, retracing my steps across the lobby, desperate to be alone again in my penthouse. I pick up my pace when I hear Dex calling out behind me.
My palm slams the elevator call button over and over until the door finally opens. I end up pushing several floors in my rush to get the damn doors to close before Dex can make it to the elevator. They close just seconds before he can stop me from leaving. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to center myself.
What just happened? Why is Dex meeting with magazine editors? And why hadn’t he warned me?
The only answer I can come up with is that it’s all part of his grand scheme to cut me out of The Whitney.
As soon as the elevator doors open to my foyer, I rush forward, anxious to put my heavy penthouse door between me and the rest of the world—especially Dex Cohen.
Only when I’m safely alone do I allow myself to collapse into the first chair I come to. Laying my head back, I close my eyes, sipping air in an attempt to calm my nerves.
I’m overreacting. I know I am, but the stakes are so high in this twisted game Dex and I are playing. Every single time I see him I feel like I’m going to war, and so far, I’ve lost every battle.
I hear the elevator ding its arrival, grateful I’ve had Mr. Jenkins changing the entry codes to my suite to ensure my privacy. I hold my breath, listening as Dex tries to gain entry, half-expecting him to start pounding any second.
So, when I hear the lock disengage and my door fling open, I let out a squeal. Jumping out of my chair, I rush across the room toward the huge table holding all of Tristan’s files and receipts, putting the expanse of wood between us as I shout, “Get the hell out of my house!”
I hate that he’s got me rattled. I’ve worked so damn hard not to let him see me lose my cool.
“That was quite a show you put on, Katja,” he taunts, taking measured steps closer and closer.
“You did that on purpose! Why in the world would you set up an appointment with Lifestyle Magazine and not even tell me?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I thought I was helping,” he says, glancing down at the piles of papers spread around my laptop on the table. “I love what you’ve done with the place.”
“Screw you, Dex. You set me up. You wanted me to make an ass of myself!”
He has the nerve to chuckle. “Baby, you did a spectacular job of that all on your own.”
“This is all just a big game to you, isn’t it? And if you hurt me in the process, even better.”
His glare turns intense, and I feel his growing anger. “If I’d wanted to set you up, I never would have stopped by the front desk and asked Peter to phone you to see if you could join us. Apparently, he couldn’t reach you, so he came to the restaurant looking for you.”
“A likely story!”
“Listen, I’m sorry I tried to help you get some positive press for The Whitney for a change,” he scoffs.
