Page 6 of Dirty Deal

In the meantime, though, Weston took exactly one break from the party. He slipped away after yet another condescending speech, smiling and nodding to the guests as he edged around the ballroom to the open doors.

He went to an empty, disused conference room on the third floor of the building. I know because I followed him, slipping off my high heels so I could tiptoe silently along the corridors. He didn’t turn back to glance at me even once.

And inside that room, Weston James let his polite demeanor slip away. He let his shoulders bunch, his breath turn ragged, and he paced the empty room with agitated steps. Like a tiger forced into a small cage, bristling as it fights its instincts. I didn’t blame him even a little. The whole night was a sham.

As Weston paced, I peeped through a crack in the doorway, holding my breath. And when he swore viciously and smacked some old papers off the nearby lectern, I jumped and let out a little squeak.

Weston froze, pinning me in place with his thunderous gaze. Even hidden by the door, Iknowhe saw me through the tiny crack. Saw right the way down to my sneaky, shameful soul.

Weston’s hands flexed by his sides. His chest heaved beneath his shirt as he stared in my direction.

Then he turned on his heel and strode out of another exit, like nothing had happened. When Weston bumped into me in the ballroom twenty minutes later, he smiled blandly and complimented my dress in the same bored tone he always did.

“Make this quick,” my father’s ex-protege says now, sinking into the armchair beside mine. He’s a different man from that night. There’s no polite mask anymore—this Weston is rich, powerful and ruthless, and he doesn’t care who knows.

Correction: hewantspeople to know. He wants the shiver of apprehension that travels down my spine; wants my palms to sweat in his presence. I place my hands on my thighs, wiping them surreptitiously, and force myself to meet his unforgiving gaze.

“My parents are in trouble.” The words taste sour, but I grit them out. How could my family have fallen so far in the space of a single year? “We need your help. Please.”

Weston stares for a beat, processing my words… then leans back in his armchair and laughs.

And laughs. And laughs.

“It’s not funny.” Acid bubbles in my stomach. I still haven’t eaten since the plane; have barely slept in the last week. Not since I learned how monumentally foolish my parents have been, and how they’ve put themselves in such danger. My whole body is on edge right now.

“I disagree,” Weston says, an amused smile still flitting around his mouth. “The Merritt family begging for my help is the definition of laughable.”

I press my lips together, anger and bitterness churning up my insides, as Weston chuckles and repeats my words to himself, shaking his head. He’s more relaxed now that we’re in the armchairs, his big body sprawled and loose-limbed. Like we’re old friends catching up, and I just told him an incredible joke.

The worst part? I don’t even blame him for laughing in my face.

This man owes us nothing. Over the years that Weston worked as my father’s right hand man, he weathered morecondescension and ingratitude than a saint could bear. Of course he hates us. Of course he relishes our downfall.

But I didn’t come here to beg and offer nothing in return. There must besomethingthat would tempt the ice man into thawing.

“We could make a bet of some kind.” My hands press harder into my thighs. This is a casino, after all, and maybe Weston is a gambling man. “A wager, with the prize being your help.”

But he snorts, shaking his head. “Sounds like a one-sided prize.”

“Well, you could win something else—”

“I don’t gamble,” Weston interrupts, his piercing blue eyes pinning me in place like a butterfly on a cork board. “I leave that foolishness to men like your father.”

“But… you own a casino.”

“Exactly.” He gives a shark’s smile. “I prefer a sure thing.”

Crap. Okay.

“A deal, then.” My throat is dry, and I clear it. It’s hard to speak normally, to force out whole words and not trip over my own tongue, when Weston James watches me likethat.Like I’m a plaything, a ball of string for him to bat around and then abandon. He’s fascinated but cold. “Your help in return for something concrete. I’ll give you anything you ask for. Anything that’s in my power to give.”

Something dark moves behind Weston’s blue eyes, and he strokes his jaw, considering. Late night stubble rasps against his palm, and his voice is deceptively light when he asks, “Anything?”

My stomach plummets, and heat crawls up my throat as I play back my own words in my head. It’s clear what he thinks I’m offering, and I don’t know whether I’m more horrified or turned on by the thought.

Weston Jamesbuyingme. Using my body for his pleasure; taking out his day’s frustrations between my legs. Shoving me to my knees and feeding his cock between my lips. Claiming every single inch of me, touching me where no one has ever touched, and doing it all with the same dispassionate resentment that he’s looking at me with now.

It should be a degrading thought. Damn it, itisa degrading thought.

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