“I get that,” I say, “but it angers me that Grayson is getting hit on all sides.”
“We don’t have to defend if we attack first,” Eric says, eyeing Blake. “You and I need to find a way to smoke out the problem. I’m up for an all-day, all-nighter if you are.”
“I’m all fucking in,” Blake says. “And so is my team. I suggest you bring your savant brain to our offices where we can hook it up to our resources.”
Eric agrees. “Done.”
“I for one, nix the interview idea,” Davis interjects, swinging back to the prior topic. “Reporters are vampires. They’ll take this FBI mess and twist it.”
Eric scoffs. “Are you fucking serious, Davis? They’re already doing that. We need to do reputation damage control, and Grayson and Mia together do that better than anyone else possibly could.” He eyes Grayson. “Grayson?”
A thought hits me and I push into the conversation. “I know some people hate Grayson for being Grayson—rich and powerful and good-looking—but he’s a good man. The people who work here know he’s a good man. I have a hard time believing that won’t come across in an interview. And I have to believe that some of those people who came here to hurt Grayson will change their minds.”
“But some won’t,” Blake states. “We just need to make sure anything that comes at us is a sideswipe, not a permanent dent.”
Meaning they need to make sure I don’t end up dead. Or that’s my assumption, though it seems a fairly good one right after having a gun held to my head. It’s in the air, hanging there, a heavy rock that wants to smash me right in the head.
“One more thing,” Blake adds. “Don’t assume the attack will come from here at the offices. It could come from an unknown, outside source. Or even someone close to you in your personal life. I’ll be in touch on the Summer meeting.”
And with that rock thrown, the room scatters and empties, the door shutting to leave me and Grayson alone in his office.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Mia
Control.
We’re back to Grayson needing control.
I can feel it in the crackle of the air, even before he catches my hand and walks me to him. “I want right now,” he murmurs, his head tilted low to mine. “Many things. You know that, right?”
When this man says he wants, I want, and my nipples immediately pucker while my sex clenches. “I do know,” I say, my voice low, a rasp that tells a story: I’m right here with him, affected in every way.
His hands come down on my arms. “I want to pull your skirt up and fuck you right here on the table. I want to spank you. I want to take you to some exotic place and keep you naked in bed for three fucking months.” His voice is low, guttural. His hands come down on my arms and he pulls back to look at me. “But more than anything, I want to go home with you. And we are. Tonight.”
“Tonight?” I ask hopefully. “Are you sure?”
“One hundred percent, baby. You’re right. We need our life back and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let Ri continue to take that from us, but I need you to make a deal with me.”
“What deal?” I ask cautiously.
“If Blake identifies a credible threat against you, we get on a plane and hunker down somewhere until this is over. Fair enough?”
“I don’t have a death wish. I can live with that, quite literally.”
His cellphone buzzes with a text and he snakes it from his pocket, his jaw tensing as he reads the message. “What is it?”
He types a reply and shoves his phone back into his pocket. “That was Dean Rourke, the head of the hotel operations. The press is hounding him as well.” He runs a hand over his goatee, frustration in the action when he rarely allows an outward reaction to anything. He turns away, walking to the window and pressing his hands on the bar dividing the center of the glass, looks out over the jut of buildings framed by the ocean. I do the same, but I’m looking at him, not the city. “What are you thinking?”
His glances over at me. “I have a tendency to hit hard and fast and take control.”
“You? Really? Is that what you call wanting to confront the press, hide me away, and—”
“Elope and call you my wife now, when I know you deserve the wedding of a century.”
I push off the window to face him and he does the same, facing me. “You want to elope?”
He catches my waist, steps into me. “The idea of waiting another minute to marry you, when the next minute is never guaranteed, makes me insane.” He strokes my hair behind my ear. “But then we both know that I’m in that mode I get in where I want—”