The Devil You Know (The Devils #3)(25)

I don’t feel any better now than I did Saturday. No matter how hard I try not to think about that kiss, I can’t seem to stop, and I suspect the only cure might involve getting him to do it again. Getting him to do more. And since I refuse, I guess this situation is permanent.

I take the seat across from his in the conference room. Our gazes lock. He doesn’t smile, nor do I. We are definitely at war now, though I don’t know what he’s got to be pissed about. Neither of us speak, and the meeting ends unusually fast, which leads me to think our bickering might have been wasting more of the staff’s time than I realized.

When he walks out without a word to anyone, I tell myself I’m relieved. It’s strange, sometimes, the way relief feels a bit like disappointment.

I spend the day trying to ignore the lingering effects of the virus he gave me—the repeated clench of a muscle low in my abdomen, the warmth and occasional breathlessness. I almost feel normal again by the time I meet my favorite client for dinner. Walter is in his early sixties and is possibly the one person capable of restoring my faith in men: he adores his wife and kids and he cares deeply about the well-being of his employees. That he specifically requested me when he came to the firm—right on the heels of Ben stealing my biggest client—was nothing short of a miracle, and since that time he’s sent me more work than the rest of my clients put together.

We meet at his favorite steakhouse, and briefly discuss some litigation I’m handling for him before he sets down his fork and knife and looks at me.

“So, when are they going to give you a piece of the pie over there, at that law firm of yours?” he asks. “You’ve certainly earned it by now.”

I force a smile. “If it’s up to them, never.”

“You can always come to us. You told me yourself I needed in-house counsel.”

“You do. You’re paying FMG twice what you would otherwise.” I don’t understand why he’s still going through me.

“Then work for us. Think how much shorter your days would be. These are the best years of your life. You’re letting them pass you by.”

If FMG doesn’t make me a partner this winter, I’ll have to consider it—it could be another five years before the opportunity comes again—but the mere possibility fills me with dread.

“This isn’t the time to let my foot off the gas,” I tell him. “I’ll think about having a life once I’ve made partner.”

“You could still find time to date,” he argues. He’s said it before. I used to worry he was going to try to set me up with one of his umpteen children, but fortunately he has not. “I bet there’s some nice young man in your office, working the same hours you do.”

All I see in my head for a moment is Ben. Ben, who beats me to work most mornings always looking like a million bucks in his perfect fucking suits, that smug smile permanently fixed on his face. Ben, who lives to torture me, who tortured me all weekend in my apartment when he wasn’t even there.

“We’re lawyers, Walter,” I say with a smile. “None of us are nice.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Forget I said anything.”

I go back to the office after dinner. The halls are empty, but there’s a light on in the conference room and, somehow, I know it’s him. I can’t avoid him forever, I tell myself, but I’m walking awfully fast for someone who is theoretically reluctant.

His face is deadly serious as he watches me walk in, his gaze almost palpable. A shiver ghosts over my skin, and my thighs press tight as I try to will away the effect he has on me.

I take a chair and his mouth quirks, as if he just thumbed through every filthy thought I’ve had over the past seventy-two hours and their sheer depravity has left him embarrassed for me.

“How are you?” he asks.

I kick off my heels, placing them on a chair beside me. “What are you doing right now?”

“It’s called conversation, Gemma. You tell me you’re fine, then you ask how I am.”

He needs to shave—I bet it would feel like fine-grit sandpaper between my thighs.

“Do I have to pretend I care about your answer? Because that sounds like a lot of work.”

He holds my gaze. “Fine, then tell me something…have you thought about it? I’ll admit it if you will.”

“You just admitted it already.”

His laughter is low, over-confident, already certain how I’d answer if I was willing to answer. “I’m wondering which part you thought about,” he begins, stretching back in his seat, palms behind his neck, as if he’s lounging at the pool.

Next, he’ll mention my hands in his hair, which hardly implies unwillingness. Or my intake of breath, the way I arched against him seeking more.

I rise to my feet, buoyed by seventy-two hours of pent-up frustration and rage. “Stop.”

“Quitting so soon?” he challenges. “Typical female. Mouthy until the going gets tough. With the way you were—”

I was reaching for my shoes already, but it’s as if my brain has mixed up my intent. I grab only one…and I whip it at him, as hard as I can, realizing after it’s airborne that if that spiky heel hits the wrong thing he could wind up in the hospital—or worse, the heel could snap.

But he catches it, and his eyes gleam—an evil look if I’ve ever seen one. “Thanks,” he says, rising to his feet. “I’ve always wanted one of your shoes.”