Devil's Contract

I hear the raised voices the second I step into the main lobby. Well-dressed groups of guests are interspersed throughout the open space. Instead of mingling over cocktails, all their attention is focused on the commotion at the other end of the lobby. As I get closer, I see Dex surrounded by several of my most loyal employees. A sliver of vindication registers as I recognize the anger rolling off him as our eyes meet.

“What seems to be the problem here?” I ask innocently.

Dex cuts Peter off as soon as the manager tries to explain.

“My key is not working for my suite. I’m disappointed in you, Katja. I thought we had an agreement,” he says coldly.

Keeping my own voice just as frosty, I reply. “Oh, and we do. I’m sure my team has already informed you that we’ve got a room at the other end of the thirteenth floor reserved for you. If you’d like help with your bags…”

“Perhaps I wasn’t clear enough in our meeting. Things are going back to the way they were. That means…”

It was my turn to cut him off, holding up my hand like a stop sign as I cut in. “And perhaps I wasn’t clear. You will move back in, but we’ve spent a lot of money remodeling the thirteenth floor while you were away. Some of our best suites are now located there, as is our new business center. They’re reserved months in advance. We can’t throw guests out of their rooms just because you’re in a snit.”

The brown in his eyes darkens to almost black as they do when he’s about to lose his temper. I’ve witnessed it more times than I can count over the years. It used to scare me. Today it brings me joy. He may have had the upper hand this morning at that dive of a pub he’s been hanging out in, but here, in The Whitney’s lobby, I love reminding him who will be in charge.

My breath hitches as he brushes past three of my best employees, approaching me so quickly I flinch. I feel his hands squeezing my elbows as he leans in to speak against my ear.

“This is a dangerous game you’re playing, Katja. Do you really want to take this fight public?”

The threatening edge in his voice almost makes me cave… almost. I’m counting on his love of The Whitney to keep him in check.

Leaning back far enough to look him in the eyes, I answer, “You won’t make a scene. Not here. Not now.” Taking a fortifying breath, I fight the urge to look at his lips and add, “Per our earlier agreement, I’ve had my team prepare two rooms on the thirteenth floor for you and Z. You’re free to move into them tonight.

“As for the rest of that floor, I’m afraid we’ll need thirty days to contact the guests who’ve reserved The Boardroom suites and make new arrangements for their stays. Until then…”

“You have thirty minutes, not days,” he snaps.

“That’s not possible. And while we’re talking about arrangements, I’ll need sixty days to give proper notice to the restaurant staff at The Rooftop to advise them we’re closing.”

I no more than get the sentence out and I hear the chef shouting near the elevator banks. As I glance in that direction, he comes into view with a scowling Z trailing behind him. I feel my blood pressure rising with each step closer they get.

“What the hell is going on around here, Katja? This asshole just barged into my kitchen and told me we aren’t opening for dinner tonight.”

Could he have shouted that any louder? I’m not sure the people walking by out on Fifth Avenue heard him.

Dex steps away and turns, ready to deck the angry chef, but I clutch his arm, trying to hold him back as I defuse the situation.

“Let’s take this meeting back of house, shall we?” I say as calmly as I can manage.

Like Dex, Chef Bernard wants no part of my plan to move locations.

“I demand answers,” the chef commands in his most arrogant voice.

I may not be able to stop Dex Cohen from fucking with my life right now, but Jacques Bernard is an employee.

“And I demand you keep your voice down and follow me to the back office to continue this discussion. I’m sure we’ve given the guests in the lobby more than enough fodder for gossip already.” When he thankfully delays his next argument, I ask Peter, “Please lead the way to your office where we can discuss all of this more privately.”

We’re an odd collection—me in my black Chanel suit—Chef wearing his tall white toque—the front desk manager in his uniform—Z in ripped jeans, T-shirt, and tats—and Dex in his tailored slacks and button-down with just the right amount of dark chest hair peeking out of the open collar.

Stop looking at chest hair, and get your head on straight.

Once crammed in Peter’s office, the door no more than clicks shut when Dex starts barking orders. “Things are changing around here and if one of my men tells you something then—”

He halts at my shout of “Stop!”

My eyes lock with Dex in a silent showdown. With each passing second under his dominant glare, I feel my power seeping away. Tears prick my eyes at the thought of losing control of The Whitney to him. But then I remember the one thing that would be even worse.

Losing The Whitney to Tristan’s stupid creditors.