Page 14 of Never Dance with the Devils
Although to be honest, right now I really, really regret not owning a suit coat of some type.
Kayla is still staring at us, blinking like she might be seeing things. Or maybe hoping we’re figments ofher imagination.
“For the Foundation? Something about hockey donations for the gala,” Angeline murmurs out of the side of her mouth, filling Kayla in on our meeting like she might need a little reminder.
There’s just one problem.
We’re not supposed to have a meeting. Maddox made that shit up and charmed our way into Kayla’s office, no easy feat. Honestly, I think the only thing that helped was that Angeline immediately recognized us, explaining that her husband is a huge Devils fan. We let her snap a couple of selfies with us, and in turn, we got into Kayla’s inner sanctum.
Or… well, her office one, at least. I’m still hoping to get into her more private, personal one again. But given the look of horror mixed with fury, with a dash of fear flashing across her expressive face, that’s not very likely.
“Hi Kay-la,” Maddox says, using her full name pointedly, though his smile is warm, like this is an everyday, no-big-deal meet and greet. He elbows me, reminding me to speak and quit staring at her like a serial killer.
“Hey… again.” I make no effort to hide the way my eyes trace over her from head to toe. She’s wearing a charcoal gray jacket and skirt combo over a white button-down blouse, and a pair of black fuck-me stilettos I’d love to feel digging into my back when she wraps her legs around me. She looks gorgeous, somehow even better than I remembered, and more powerful surrounded by expensive art and fancy wood paneling, like she’s gaining authority from being somewhere she’s in charge.
As though her assistant’s clues only just clicked, Kayla turns to Angeline. “Did you say hockey? As in…” She trails off, one brow arched high to prompt a reply.
“Like ice and pucks and sticks,” Angeline replies, worried eyes darting from her boss to us. As though Kayla still might not know what she’s talking about, she adds a slapshot motion that makes it clear she’s watched more than a few games with her husband.
“It’s been a couple of months since wetalked,” Maddox says meaningfully, crossing the room with his hand extended and a congenial smile plastered on his face. He’s good at this shit. Too good. “Maddox Brooks. Of the Devils.”
She’s slow to lift her hand, and her eyes are narrowed like she’s trying to figure out what game we’re playing in real time, but she does eventually slide her hand into his.
I wish I could shake her hand and smile like this is all fun and games, but if I touch her right now, I’m going to throw her on the couch along the far wall and bury my face between her legs to remind her who the fuck we are and why we’re here. So, weighing my options, I opt for the non-orgasmic one and give a two-finger wave from my position across the room. “Riggs Patrick. Devils.” I see her eyes tick to my right bicep and know she’s remembering the devil tattoo there, the one she traced with her eyes at the bar and left fingernail half-moon indentations in at the hotel. Involuntarily, I flex a little, and her breath audibly catches. It feels like the smallest victory in this battle of well-mannered greetings with so many undercurrents that they’re nearly a riptide.
“Of course. Mr. Brooks, Mr. Patrick, shall we?” Kayla says evenly. If her spine were any straighter, I’d think she had a broomstick up her ass, but her hips sway seductively as she walks around the large executive-style desk to sit in her leather-tufted, high-back chair.Honestly, if Angeline hadn’t told us this was Kayla’s office, I would’ve expected it to belong to an older man. It has an air of conservatism and legacy, and I wonder if Kayla decorated it herself or if it used to belong to her father.
Because we did our homework after finding Kayla. We know all about her, the Harrington family, their foundation and the upcoming fundraiser gala, and we shamelessly used that information to our benefit. I guess we owe Google a thank you for getting us this far, at least. Now, it’s up to us.
“Can I get you anything?” Angeline asks dutifully as we take our chairs once again, holding on to the pretense that this is a meeting to discuss donations.
“That won’t be necessary. This shouldn’t take long,” Kayla answers, and her assistant scurries out. As soon the door makes a softsnickof closing, Kayla’s professional façade falls away. Bright blue eyes flashing fire and pretty mouth turned down, she hisses, “I don’t know what the hell you two think you’re doing, but it won’t work. I don’t pay blackmail demands, and neither the company, nor my family, negotiate with terrorists. So you can take your dog and pony show and get the fuck out.” She points a manicured, pale pink nail toward the door.
Maddox’s respectful, good guy act drops away, replaced by his usual chill and carefree vibe as he leans my way. “You think you’re the dog and I’m the pony? Or vice versa?” I remain silent, but he acts as though I answered anyway. “Yeah, you’re right. You’re obviously the pony.” He drops his eyes to my crotch, grinning like that’s funny, and I grind my teeth to keep from punching him. How is he so chatty and smiley when she’s merefeet away, but there’s obviously a vast canyon of misunderstanding between us?
I give him a death glare before locking my gaze back on Kayla. Her cheeks are flushed, her chest is rising and falling more quickly, and her hands are pressed to her desktop like she’s trying to keep from murdering us where we sit, and I have no doubt that Angeline has a cleaner on speed dial for any disposal needs the Harrington family may need. She lets out a tiny growl of frustration at being ignored, and Maddox refocuses on smoothing over this shitshow.
“Kayla,” Maddox starts, his hands up in surrender, “calm down. We’re not?—”
She drops her chin several inches, glaring at us through long, dark lashes, and snarls, “Did you just. Tell me. To calm down?”
Oh, shit. You done fucked up now, buddy.
“You’re right, my bad. Poor choice of words. What I meant to say is, please listen… for just one teeny-tiny, itsy-bitsy minute.” Maddox’s correction doesn’t seem to land any better, but he plows on full-steam ahead. “We wanted to see you again?—”
“So you showed upat my officeto embarrass me?” she accuses.
“Never mind,” I blurt out, pushing on my thighs and standing up abruptly. I look down at Maddox, who’s still seated. “I changed my mind. That night obviously didn’t mean to her what it meant to us.” I shake my head in disbelief. “She’s calling us terrorists, thinks we’re here to blackmail her, and is embarrassed by us. I already did the ‘ashamed of you’ thing and I’m not looking for a repeat performance.” To Kayla, I huff out bitterly, “Sorry to have bothered you. Hope this didn’truin whatever good memories you had of that night. Because it sure fucked mine up.”
I’m three long strides toward the door when Maddox calls out, “Motherfucker, hold on. Give me a minute here.”
I don’t know if he’s talking to me or Kayla because when I glance over my shoulder, she’s standing behind her desk, her jaw dropped open in shock, and eyes on me. Maddox is standing too, arms outstretched in a T, one toward me and one toward Kayla like he’s some peacemaker man in the middle when he’s the biggest shit-stirrer there ever was. If he’s our mediator, we’re fucked.
“We’re sorry for coming here unannounced,” Maddox says quickly before anyone else can say something to fuck this thing up any more than it already is. “That’s my fault. I thought it’d be better than showing up at your front door.”
“Phones exist, you know,” she snaps back. Under her breath, she mutters something that sounds suspiciously like ‘stalkers’.
“Can we sit down and talk for a minute? Please.” Maddox sounds desperate, and I remember that I wasn’t the only one looking forward to seeing Kayla again. He wants this, wants her, just as much as I do… did… fuck, still do. And he has his own way of handling things, a much less asshole-ish way than my usual cold grunts and silent stares.
