Devils contract, p.10
Devil's Contract, page 10
“Is there something else?” I finally ask, praying the answer is no. I’m not sure how much more shit I can pile on my back right now.
“It’s just…” He pauses. I suspect he’s trying to determine if his concern rises to my definition of an emergency.
“You can speak freely with me,” I urge, desperate to be left alone.
“It’s just… there’s a lot of unrest among the staff.”
“Of course, there is. We had a death on the premises, and that death has had…” I freeze. I was about to say the word consequences, but ever since my little run-in with Dex on the thirteenth floor five days ago, that word has taken on a whole new level of meaning for me. Pushing aside the memory of my humiliating belting, I end with a rather lame, “…rippling effects through the entire Whitney family.”
“Yes, that’s part of it. But it’s more. It’s…”
One of the things I like most about Mike Jenkins is his no-nonsense approach to all things. It unnerves me to see him unsure.
“It’s okay. I’m not made of glass.”
“You haven’t been out of your penthouse since Monday. The staff is used to you checking on the operation every day.”
“They do know my husband died, right?” I don’t add that I’m in mourning, since he knows me well enough to know that isn’t true. It’s part of the reason I’ve stayed hidden. With all I’ve discovered this week about Tristan’s financial straits, I’m afraid of projecting just how relieved I am that my husband is dead. At least now I have a chance of turning things around.
“Yes, and that’s actually part of the problem. Mr. Miller was a larger-than-life part of The Whitney. The staff members are feeling his loss, just as you are. And worse… the arrival of Mr. Cohen has triggered a lot of change which is leading to additional uncertainty.”
I know a lot about that additional uncertainty. If I’m honest with myself, Dex Cohen’s presence is the number one reason I’ve stayed upstairs all week. Just the thought of running into Dex… knowing he’s been enjoying the memories of my humiliation at being bared and belted by him makes my stomach churn.
Unaware of my spiraling thoughts, Mr. Jenkins adds, “Perhaps you might enjoy eating in the restaurant this evening instead of here in your suite. I’ll make sure to reserve your table near the back corner where it will be quiet. Maybe stop and say hello to the front desk staff and bellmen on your way upstairs afterward. I think it would go a long way.”
He’s managing me and I hate it. But, I also appreciate it. Unlike most others in my life right now, I do believe Mike Jenkins has my best interest at heart.
I sigh before responding. “Very well, I’ll make a short appearance. I gave Francesca this evening off to spend time with her family, anyway.”
A rare smile brightens the security officer’s face. “That’s great news. Would seven work for you?”
“Sure,” I reply, already regretting my decision. The only positive thing is I can pretty much guarantee Dex will be much too busy entertaining his band of thugs on his rooftop domain to be hanging around the lobby on a Friday night.
I step off the elevator into the lobby at precisely seven o’clock. I’ve spent the week hibernating in my penthouse, barely eating and showering, let alone dressing in my normal designer fashion wardrobe. Ironically, the clicking of my heels on the marble tile actually calms my nerves.
Glancing around at the opulence that is my hotel—my home—I realize my error in hiding. I may be shaken up by the changes of the last few weeks, but I’m still standing. With each step I lift my chin, stand straighter, forcing myself to remember who I am, and the power I still hold.
Mr. Jenkins was right. My absence isn’t hurting Dex. In fact, he probably loved having me MIA all week so he could seize control of decisions he has no right to make.
By the time I enter the lobby-level restaurant, I’m feeling better than I have all week.
Marilyn, the maître d’, greets me. “Good evening, Ms. Belov. I was happy to hear you’d be joining us this evening. We’ve missed you this week.”
“Thank you, Marilyn.”
“Let me show you to your table,” she says, moving before I can tell her I don’t need a guide in my own restaurant.
When she takes a turn into the heart of the restaurant, I reach out to tap her on the shoulder.
“I’d like to sit in the back corner tonight, please.”
I see the confusion on her face when he turns back in my direction. “But…”
She doesn’t finish her sentence, or if she does, I don’t hear her. I’m too distracted by the sight of Dex Cohen seated in the middle of my restaurant… leaning close to laugh with some woman I’ve never seen before who is hanging on his every word.
I’ve been stuck on a fucking rollercoaster of emotions since Tristan’s death and a fresh wave of fury washes over me. It’s bad enough he’s taken over control of his portion of the hotel again, but he has no right to bring his long line of floozies into my restaurant.
Brushing past a stunned Marilyn, I beeline it to Dex’s table, glad he can’t see me until I’m next to him.
“How dare you bring your flavor of the week here,” I seethe, keeping my voice low enough to avoid announcing my arrival to the entire restaurant. I motion around the room with my hand just as he glances up at me from his seated position. “I’m sure your companion would be much more comfortable upstairs mingling with your kind of guests.”
A sharp intake of breath is the only response to my insult, and it comes from the woman sitting to Dex’s left. I pay her no attention. I’m too busy trying to figure out why Dex has a small smile playing on his lips.
Why isn’t he bothered? Better yet, leaving?
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.
“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.
“She’s poking around.” He leans back in his chair and runs his tattooed hand through his hair. “The question is how much do you want her to know about what we do on this floor and the rooftop.”
“She doesn’t need to know anything. She has her responsibilities and we have ours.”
Z chuckles. “Well, I think you need to inform her of that then. Because she’s been up my ass all weekend. I preferred her when she was locking herself in her penthouse mourning her husband and how he fucked with her life.”
“I’ll take care of her,” I say as I release a deep sigh. “Where are we on the secured network? Mr. White is in room 1312 and refuses to use The Whitney’s WiFi that’s available to all the guests. I can’t say I blame him. We need to make that happen pronto.”
Z’s jaw locks. “Katja got in the way of that too. But don’t worry, I think it’ll be solved by the end of the day.” His eyes narrow at the papers I’m sorting, and he lets out a breath. “I know how badly you want things the way they once were. But your father and Katja’s father had a business deal that was unbreakable. My father was a loyal friend and business associate. The trio were dynamic in how they did things. Katja, you, and me, are not that trio. I don’t think we ever will be. And since I’m your friend, I’m gonna be frank. What’s protecting us from repeating history and being kicked out and put right back on our asses? It’s clear Katja doesn’t want us here.”
“She wants my money,” I snap.
“Yeah… well, what happens when she starts making her own money again? She’ll only be down on her luck for a short time, and you know it. We’re helping her get The Whitney back on its feet, and knowing Katja… we’ll be back in the slums running biz out of a low rent motel again.”
Growing rage, caused by the visual of his words, sizzles through my veins. “That won’t ever happen again. I’ll make sure of it.”
I look down at my watch, annoyed that Katja is ten minutes late. She’s never late, so I know she’s doing this on purpose. Her display of disrespect, and her trying to show me that her time is more valuable than mine is causing my blood to boil. But I also refuse to give her the satisfaction of knowing she has the power to cause such a reaction in me.
“We’re out of Montblanc pens,” I say, trying to stay on task. “I sent them all out in the initial invite wave.”
Having possession of one of the most expensive pens in the world was the only way to gain access to the thirteenth floor and the rooftop. No pen, no admittance. It was also our internal way within The Whitney to distinguish Katja’s guests from my guests.
