Page 5 of Dirty Deal

I inhale slowly, forcing myself not to react to that new information. To the fantasies spawning deep in my brain—fantasies of Lena slipping in here to seeme.

“Thank you,” I say at last, “for demonstrating the gap in our security. We’ll fix it within the hour.” Then she can never sneak up on me again.

I raise an arm toward the door, gesturing for Lena to leave. She winces but stands her ground, her pointed little chin raising as she meets my eye. My gut twists impossibly tighter.

“There’s something I need to discuss with you, Weston.”

Her voice is strong and clear until she says my name. Then it cracks, like she’s overcome with some private emotion. Still, Lena rallies well, squaring her shoulders beneath her trenchcoat. The belt nips in at her waist, hinting at the perfect figure I know lies beneath.

I look away.

“If you want to meet with me, you’ll need to make an appointment.”

Lena scoffs. “And you’ll agree to that, will you?”

No. Not in a million years.

The Merritt family had their chance with this place, and they squandered it. Their complete lack of care for the privilege they were born with—that’s an insult to everyone who grew up like I did. Why would I ever meet with them now that I no longer need to? Their bad decisions are their own business, thank god.

“Contact my assistant, Ariq. He’ll check my calendar and let you know.” I raise my arm again, gesturing for the door, but Lena huffs and stands her ground.

“You’re fobbing me off. I’m not an idiot, Weston.”

I raise an eyebrow. “And yet the Merritt blood runs in your veins.”

It’s a low blow, and a part of me regrets the words as soon as they pass my lips, especially when Lena stiffens. Only a small part of me, though. I don’t for a moment believe that a woman like Lena Merritt would truly care what a man of my background thinks of her. She’s too proud.

“I’m here now,” she grits out, taking another step into my office. The door swings slowly shut behind her, whispering over the floorboards, and when it finally clicks into place, enclosing the two of us all alone—the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Too aware of her, like always. Electrified.

And how many times have I pictured this? Getting the Merritt princess all alone; getting her to say my name in that husky voice. Having her eyes fixed on me in a dark, private office. More times than I can count.

So humiliating. If I could lobotomize whichever part of my brain keeps fixating on Lena Merritt, I’d do it in a heartbeat.

“It won’t take long,” Lena says, fiddling with the cuff of her coat sleeve. That nervous gesture gives me pause, and she seizes the advantage by walking to the two leather armchairs grouped by the windows. The ones meant forlegitimatevisitors, who come to discuss business and not to uproot my psyche.

Her heels clack against the floorboards as she walks. Is she wearing a cocktail dress underneath that coat? One I’ve seen before, or something new?

When Lena sinks down into the left armchair, a headache throbs in my temples… but I follow. Fuck.

“Make this quick,” I say, sinking into the other chair. They’re turned toward each other, grouped loosely around a glass coffee table, with a floor lamp and a potted fern in between. I leave the lamp switched off, preferring to keep my expression as shadowed as possible whenever Lena Merritt is near. If she saw the hunger I feel for her, my pride would never recover.

She draws in a deep breath, places both palms on her lap, then meets my gaze straight-on.

“My parents are in trouble.” Lena swallows, her slender throat bobbing. “We need your help. Please.”

Three

Lena

The last time I saw Weston James was the day he bought the Merritt casino. My father made a whole big thing of it, throwing a huge party in the Merritt ballroom and giving speeches to the guests, going on and on about how he saw Weston’s potential all along. How he’d built his protege up from nothing, just like the family business.

Bullshit, obviously. A man like Weston isn’t built from the outside, he’s forged from within. Itriedto warn my father about that, begged him to let me rewrite his speech, but he wouldn’t allow it. And for that whole party, I cringed at every patronizing word thrown Weston’s way.

But Weston smiled along and laughed quietly in all the right places. He raised a glass to each condescending toast my father made, and he spun my mother around the dance floor. Old men with fat bank accounts slapped him on the shoulder, and still Weston kept his mask firmly in place.

Isaw it, though. What that night did to him—how much he loathed every second. Weston James may have an iron grip onhis self control, but I saw through the crack in his facade. I sawhim.

It was late into the party. The papers still hadn’t been officially signed, and the sale wasn’t final. That’s the only reason Weston played along: to reach the dramatic moment at midnight when my father would sign the casino over with a flourish, cameras flashing in the crowd.

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