Page 72 of Fifth Avenue Devil

"Since I started playing chess, not checkers," I retort smoothly. "This isn't about needing room. My concern is controlling the board."

Drew and Cash look at each other, conferring silently. Then Cash shrugs. “Okay. We’ll hold off for a month.” He lifts a finger in warning. “Not forever, though. Gellar Industries is vulnerable. Word will get out soon enough. You’d better hope we make our move before anybody else does.”

“Good enough.” I write a quick tip on a cocktail napkin and slide it over to Drew. “And now, gentlemen. I have places to be.”

Cash looks at Drew. “Nate has to go screw Annalise.”

Fast as lightning, I reach across the table and grab Cash’s tie, pulling him close. “Wanna try that again?”

“You’re awfully sensitive, big brother.” Fire flashes in Cash’s eyes. “Do what you’re going to do. I’ll still talk about you and Anna–”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence. I grab the back of his head and ram his nose into the table with a sickening crack. Blood immediately spurts out of his nose, and he claps his hands to the wound. “Whadefugg?” Cash cries. “Christ, Date!”

He sounds hilarious. I make a note to tell him about how funny his voice was when he’s not freaking out. Rising from the table, I lean in to tell him, “See you around, little brother.”

I can feel Cash’s glare right between my shoulders as I leave. A bartender rushes toward the table with a fistful of cocktail napkins. But I don’t look back.

Cash deserved it. And I’ll break his pretty nose again the next time he says anything about Annalise. The only person who can bully her isme.

Twenty-Eight

Annalise

“Wow,” I breathe. I stand at the window of the hotel room that Nate surprised me with, unable to believe it. I’m staring directly at the Notre-Dame de Paris, or the Notre-Dame Cathedral as Americans usually refer to it. The other window has a view of the river Seine, with a corner of the Louvre at the edge.

It’s early in the morning in Paris, but I still feel like it’s the middle of the night because of jet lag. Still, I am thrilled to be here. Nate couldn’t have known this, but I’ve never been to Paris as a fully realized adult. I’ve never strolled the beautiful streets, bought a French pastry, or even visited the Eiffel Tower on my own.

And now I’mhere. One private jet flight later, I’m spending my morning in a spectacular Parisian apartment. The place is a quarter block and decorated with large windows, chic white furnishings, and Parisian coffered ceilings. Even, thin, gold flourishes are painted around the panels of the white wood walls. And when you step outside onto the balcony, you get this view.

It’sbreathtaking. I don’t know if Nate intended to sweep me off my feet, but I am decidedly impressed by this casual Parisian vacation. Nate says that we’re here to attend a conference on geothermal energy… but we’re in Paris, for God’s sake.

My phone buzzes in my skirt pocket. I pull it out with a sigh, not wanting to look away from this multi-million-dollar view.

The text is from Nate.Where are you? The conference starts in a few minutes.

Right. I’m supposed to meet him at the conference hotel. I check the time and realize with alarm that drinking in the Paris skyline has made me quite late. I text Nate that I’m just about to leave the apartment.

It’s not strictly true. I have to change into a business-appropriate yet chic white linen dress. I pile my curls on my head and clip them there, then add a little blush and lipstick. After I slip on a stylish pair of Manolo Blahniks and add a set of pearl earrings, I grab my purse and rush out the door.

The Parisian sun glares off the pavement as I dash through the bustling streets. I weave around tourists and locals alike. I probably look insane. My heartbeat pounds in my ears. This is the first time that I have to meet Nate at a business function. And I’m late. How shockingly gauche, as the French would say.

"Excusez-moi!” I narrowly avoid a collision with a street vendor selling vibrant bouquets. The scent of roses and lilies mingles with freshly baked baguettes wafting from a nearby boulangerie. My stomach growls. I should have had breakfast at the apartment, but I was too busy daydreaming.

"Get it together, Annalise," I chastise myself.

At times like this, I can practically hear my mother's disapproving voice in my head. The voice berates me for not being more like her ideal version of a daughter. A young woman who’d marry rich. A woman who’d let someone else handle the responsibilities of Gellar Industries.

It’s hard to tell that ever-present voice toshut up already.

I turn a corner and slow down as the smooth pavement ends and lapses into uneven cobblestones. Shit. In my high heels, this bit of street presents a challenge. Should I just flag down a cab?

In my haste and indecision, I misjudge the distance between two cobblestones. My foot gets caught, and my ankle twists painfully beneath me. I stumble, biting back a cry of pain as I fall to the ground. The world seems to blur around me as my ankle throbs with pain, sending waves of agony shooting up my leg. I blink back tears, gritting my teeth as I try to stand up.

There is no one around. I pull my heels off and hop toward a set of steps only a few yards away. Sitting down, I examine my ankle. Even the gentlest probing touch sends a bolt of pain up my leg.

“Fuck.” I dab at my eyes, taking a calming breath. There is no way I can navigate a large conference today.

Pulling out my phone, I tearfully text Nate. I feel like a stupid little girl as I explain what happened and where I am. I’m letting Nate down. Not to mention the fact that my company probably needs the kinds of contacts that I would make at this conference. Great. What kind of stupid, flighty CEO skips the conference she’s in Paris to attend?

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