The Devil You Know (The Devils #3)(14)

Instead, she simply tells me my room is ready. I will, apparently, not need to share a bed or somehow accidentally brush up against his erection. It feels a little anti-climactic if I’m being honest.

His room is beside mine, so we head upstairs together, fighting for space in the crowded elevator. Neither of us has mentioned dinner or drinks, which is probably for the best, given the hour. I’ve had more than enough of his quiet laugh and his knee brushing mine for one night anyway.

He fumbles with his keycard while I fumble with mine. We’ll be sleeping feet apart. This shouldn’t be a big deal, and it’s not a big deal, but I’m suddenly picturing thin walls, the sound of a stifled groan coming from his side. “’Night,” I croak, flushing. I push the door open with unnecessary force.

And despite my best intentions, I listen more carefully than I should once I’ve climbed into bed. There’s the slide of the closet door, the creak of a headboard as he leans against it, a news anchor’s low, even drone.

I don’t hear him groan even once, but God I can imagine it. I can so fucking imagine it.





I arrive in the lobby the next morning to discover Ben waiting. He’s fresh from the shower, his hair still damp, his suit perfectly cut. He’s clean-shaven but you can already tell it won’t last. He looks like a model in an ad for expensive watches or men’s cologne.

“You’d probably move faster if you’d wear relatively normal shoes,” he says, with a click of his tongue, glancing from my favorite black heels to his watch. His odious personality has come to the rescue again, squashing any transient feelings of lust I might otherwise have had.

“I don’t need to move faster,” I snap, “because I was early. And what’s wrong with my shoes?”

He holds the door of the car and climbs in beside me. “Your outfit screams accidentally sexy librarian, but those shoes belong on a dominatrix.”

I blink. Did he just imply I was sexy? It’s hard to tell, given how pissed off he sounds about it.

“These are Louboutins,” I reply as the driver pulls onto Ocean Drive. “No dominatrix could afford them.”

“I think you’d be surprised,” he says casually.

“What’s not surprising,” I mutter, “is that you’re so familiar with what they charge.”

He gives an unwilling laugh. “That’s not my kink.”

Which suggests he has a kink. I picture him handcuffing wrists to a headboard. My eyes flick to his hands, and that deeply troubling ache thrums between my legs again. I shift in my seat, trying to will it away.

“Let me do the talking today,” he says.

Ah, there’s the dose of cold water I needed. “But of course, sir,” I snap in response, and I swear to God his nostrils flare, as if he liked it. Which lines right up with the handcuff fantasy.

The air in the car is suddenly too warm. I fiddle with the front of my jacket, undoing the buttons. Ben’s eyes dart to my chest then veer away just as fast.

We arrive at the offices of opposing counsel and are shown to a conference room, where five attorneys wait—three partners and two associates, which is absolute overkill and leaves me feeling giddily optimistic for Margaret—if they’ve got three partners in here for this, they know it’s serious.

It’s all very civil, at first. It always is. There is the standard bullshit about the weather. They ask where we are staying and if we had a chance to go to dinner last night. One of them says we need to go to La Mar the next time we’re here. And then Aronson, the lead attorney, folds his hands on the table and shakes his head, signaling it’s time to get down to business. “Look, Miss Lawson does not have a leg to stand on.”

Right. That’s why you’ve got three partners in here.

Ben leans back in his seat, steepling his hands on his flat stomach. He’s so long that this movement should make him look gangly and awkward. Instead, he just looks more powerful, more confident. “I’m not sure how you arrived at that conclusion.”

“She had several negative reviews in a row and received countless warnings about her behavior,” Aronson says.

My foot begins to tap furiously under the table, and Ben gives me a warning glance.

Aronson sips his coffee before he concludes. “My client had no choice but to move her out of a management position.”

“It’s curious, isn’t it, that she didn’t have a single negative review until she asked for a promotion?” I ask. I’ve already ignored Ben’s request, but his request was stupid. “And that men in junior positions were earning more than her?”

Aronson glances at the guy beside him, who then slides a folder across the table. “This is what we’re prepared to offer: Fiducia will give her an additional six months of severance in addition to the amount in her contract, along with a letter of reference.”

It’s the most insulting offer I’ve ever heard. I’m gripping my pen like it’s a neck I’m trying to wring.

“Do you seriously think,” Ben replies, “that after a decade of employment discrimination and a wealth of hostile workplace complaints lodged against Fiducia, I’m going to advise my client to walk away with six extra months of severance? That’s less than the cost of this meeting.”

I’m glad he said it. If he hadn’t, it would have burst from my lips before I could stop myself.