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“This wasn’t for me. You did this for you. It’s always about you.”
Despite the huge table between us, Dex flinches as if I’d slapped him. We’re caught in a stare down for several long seconds before he lifts his hand, throwing a previously unnoticed shoebox onto the mess of the table.
“I guess this is just another one of my selfish mistakes,” he grinds out before spinning and marching back toward the door, slamming it closed behind him with enough force to rattle the items on the nearest bookshelf.
Curiosity draws me to the box, not sure if I want to know what’s inside or not.
I finally lift the lid, pulling apart the crinkled tissue paper until I uncover a small crystal encrusted picture frame I never thought I’d see again. My breath hitches.
Inside the frame is the last photo taken of me and my mother before she died. The five-year-old girl in the photo looks so happy. Little did she know things would change too soon. Unwanted tears fill my eyes at the unexpected gift.
Lifting the frame out of the tissue, I find the small, pink, pearl-covered jewelry box my mom gave me on our last Christmas together. My fingers tremble as I lift the lid, exposing the delicate ballerina who begins dancing in a circle to the tinkling sound of the music box waltz.
How? These were some of the treasures I was sure I’d lost when Tristan sold my Paris apartment. Mike Jenkins had even investigated and told me there was nothing to be done. My treasured keepsakes were gone.
Outside my apartment, the elevator dings its arrival. Without thinking about what to say, I rush across the room, opening the door to my penthouse just as Dex steps into the waiting lift.
Our eyes meet as the elevator begins to close and I step forward, thrusting my arm out just in time to re-open the doors, leaving us just a few feet apart.
I hate how off-balance I feel every time I’m in his presence. Just when I think I know what to expect, he surprises me.
My mouth feels dry but I finally find my words. “How did you do this? My contacts in Paris… they said everything was already gone.”
“It’s what I do, Katja,” he says matter-of-factly. He isn’t boasting or bragging—just stating a fact.
“Dex… I don’t know what to say. I mean…” The lump in my throat is growing, but I refuse to cry in front of him. I won’t give him the satisfaction. I settle on a simple, “Thank you.”
The elevator door tries to close again, but I hold it open, waiting for what, I’m not sure. Dex closes the distance between us, reaching out to place a hand over mine, helping to hold the door open. I can feel the slight calluses on his fingers as he strokes my hand gently.
A new fear takes hold and won’t let go. In the awkward silence, I finally ask. “And what is this little favor going to cost me?”
I swear, the skin on my ass is tingling just thinking about how it paid the price for the last favor Dex did for me. That was bad enough. I just prayed he’d never find out how damp my panties get every time I think about the belting he delivered on my bare ass.
His broad grin scrambles my insides as he gets in his parting comment. “I’ll just add it to your tab.” He pauses, the smile falling from his handsome face before he adds, “Have a good weekend. But be aware, next week we’re going to sit down and hammer out the new contract between us.”
My mind struggles to digest what he’s saying. “What new contract? We’ve reinstated our previous arrangements. Isn’t that enough?”
“That’s not even close to enough. Circumstances have changed. The new contract we draw up between us will acknowledge those changes.”
I can’t formulate words fast enough. He steps back, letting the elevator door finally start to close.
He gets in the final word with a simple, “Good night, Katja,” just as the doors shut between us.
Chapter Thirteen
DEX
“Tell me again why you were so hell bent on getting back in The Whitney,” Z says as he walks beside me down the long hall toward the conference room on the thirteenth floor. “I’ve never worked so many hours in my life.”
“It’ll be worth it,” I answer, trying hard not to agree with Z’s feelings.
We’ve both been working every waking hour to rebuild the empire our fathers had—that Katja destroyed when she kicked us out on our asses. Though I still have the respect of leaders in the criminal world, corrupt political scene, and even the different mafia families, The Whitney itself needs an overhaul. I need to make this the top destination these people choose when it comes to doing business in the darker corners of the world.
“Katja’s working my last nerve,” Z says as we enter the conference room and sit in front of piles of papers that I still need to sort through.
I don’t blame Z for being grouchy. He’s not usually the paper pusher in this partnership we have—his skills are much more useful in the cleaning department—but we need operations to be fully up and running, and I need his help.
“She needs time to adjust,” I weakly defend, more focused on the now. I have too much shit to deal with to add Katja and Z’s relationship to the to-do list.
