Page 9 of The Devil You Know

“That’s it,” says Webber. “Wonder Woman. Gail something or other. You must hear that all the time.”

I force a smile. “She’s a lot nicer than I am.”

He laughs, as if this was a joke when it was, in fact, a warning. “I bet that’s not true.” He turns to the guy beside him. “We’re going to the restaurant. Just bill the whole thing to me.”

His employees watch us move across the room, as if Webber’s leading me upstairs to take my virginity, and when we reach the top floor, I understand why—the restaurant is posh, quiet, and romantic. I’m decidedly uncomfortable when he holds my chair for me then orders us a bottle of red without even asking me if I’d like a drink. He’s the type of guy who’s experienced a bit of success and let it go to his head. I guarantee he cheats at everything—marriage, taxes, corporate expenditures—and rationalizes all of it. I know men like this well. I was raised by one, after all.

I try to turn the conversation to his company’s legal needs, and he waves me off. “We’ll get to all that. Are you hungry? Let’s order some food.”

“I’ve eaten, thank you,” I say crisply. It’s a lie, but I’m not willing to be stuck with this man for ninety minutes over a steak dinner, especially not when he’s clearly a let’s mix business with pleasure kind of guy.

The waiter pours him a taste of the wine, and he swirls it in his glass, sniffs it, then swishes it in his mouth. He nods his approval without making eye contact, as if he’s royalty.

It’s obnoxious. I bet Ben Tate does the same fucking thing.

“So, tell me what you do when you’re not at work,” he says once the waiter is gone.

“I work seven days a week,” I reply. “I rep—”

“We need to change that,” he cuts in. “You’re way too pretty to spend all your free time working.”

Ugh.

I begin again. “As I was saying, I represented—”

“Have you ever been on a yacht?” he asks, and I give up. This guy does not give two shits what kind of work I’ve done. He probably doesn’t even care that I went to law school. I’m simply here to be his pretty audience for the night, and nothing more.

I patiently listen as he tells me about his yacht, namedrops every celebrity he’s ever met and every model he’s ever dated, and then shares a somewhat pointless story about partying with “Demi” at Art Basel. What he does not do, no matter how many times I broach the topic, is discuss West Forest’s legal needs.

Gemma Charles, FMG’s first female partner, I repeat in my head.

I heave a sigh of relief when he pours the last of the wine in our glasses and throws his credit card on the table.

“Have you ever gone sailing around Coronado?” he asks. “We should go sometime.”

“Like I said, I work seven days a week, so that would be a stretch. And speaking of work—”

He winks at me. “You come with me to Coronado, I’m happy to tell your boss we were working.”

My jaw has begun to ache with the effort of faking my polite smiles. “I prefer work to yachting, I’m afraid.”

“I can see you’re going to be a challenge. That’s okay. I like a challenge.”

I’m not interested in being a challenge; I’m interested in drumming up business, and we haven’t spoken about work at all. How much longer do I have to pretend to care about this man’s dumb hobbies and social life?

“Let’s discuss what your firm can do for us,” he says when we get downstairs. He walks outside and I follow, wondering why the hell he’s only bringing this up now. “My place is right around the corner, and I have a very nice Veuve Clicquot in the fridge.”

Oh, my fucking God. I don’t need anyone’s business so much that I’ll spend an hour in his apartment fending him off to get it.

“I’ve got to be in early tomorrow.” I extend my hand. “But it was nice to meet you.”

He grabs my wrist and pulls me against him. “I liked meeting you,” he says, standing way too close. “A lot.”

And then he presses my hand to his crotch.

I gasp, and he grins, as if this is all playfully charming. I try to pull my hand back but he holds my wrist tight, and places my closed fist against his erection.

“Let go of my hand,” I snap.