Chapter 10 Episode 10

That’s when it clicks. The asshole really doesn’t recognize me. I don’t know what I expected. Itmakes sense that the arrogant, domineering lady killer who I met that night at Fiamma would discardthe memory of one of his conquests the second she left the room. I probably only recognized him soeasily because I haven’t been with anyone since him. I’m sure he’s had a revolving door of ladies togive fake names to and charm onto their backs. It’s just like my dad always taught me—rich men are assholes. Full stop. The thought of my dad sends fire through my veins. He wouldn’t put up with this crap, and neitherwill I. Since his murder two years ago—not long after I first met Gabriel, actually—I have channeledmy father a lot. They never found his killer, which has left me with a lot of anger and nowhere to putit. I tap into that well of rage now. “You promised the Union an hour-long interview,” I say, donning a cold smile. “Whether you like itor not, I’m here so you can make good on your word.” I glance down at my list of questions. “Firstquestion: how do you blend your business life with your personal life?” He c***s a brow. For a second I think he will refuse to answer, maybe even call in security to kickme out, but finally he drops his brow and sighs. “That’s easy. I don’t have a personal life.” I frown. “Everyone has a personal life.” “Next question.” “What do you mean when you say you don’t have a personal life? What do you do in your free time?” “Next question.” His tone makes it clear we will not be continuing down that avenue. I’m feeling feisty, and I figure with this guy I’m not going to get anywhere by being polite. “Tell me about your father,” I say. “What was your relationship with him like before he died?” Gabriel’s father died two years ago under infamously suspicious circumstances. His voice is cold. “Next question.” “You can’t keep avoiding my questions,” I say. “I have you for an hour. Why make that an unpleasanthour?” Gabriel stands and walks around the desk. He leans against the edge in front of me, knees nearlytouching mine, and folds his arms. The way he looks at me, his mouth ticking at the corner, his eyesdark and challenging, it looks like he wants to eat me alive. Well, I’ve gotten his attention. “I’ve never been threatened by a journalist before,” he drawls. “Go on, ink slinger. Tell me whatyou’re going to do to me.” Heat flashes between my thighs and I swallow hard. I remember what it felt like to have him pumpinginside of me, his hands like shackles keeping me still for his use, and my stomach does a flip. I force down my lust and stand up, glaring. “I’ll annoy the crap out of you until you give me aresponse,” I say. “And if you don’t, I’ll write the truth—that you’re just another entitled rich prickwho doesn’t give a s**t about anything except where your next dollar is coming from and what youwill buy with it.” I want to slap my hand to my mouth. Where did that come from? I expect my outburst to make himangry, but he only seems more amused. It’s infuriating. He’s baiting me into a trap and I am falling forit. “Given the amount of money I’ve donated to your charity, I don’t expect your editor would like that,”Gabriel points out. “She also won’t like it if I come out of here without any answers.” “Like I said, I’ll have a packet sent to you with everything you need.” He straightens and stepsforward, and his body is so close to mine that I smell him—earthy and male. Sandalwood, maybe. Iresist the urge to gulp his scent in. “So I can use the same dull script as everyone else?” I ask. “I don’t think so.” He leans in. “Tough.” “What is your problem?” I snarl. “Presently, you.” “Just give me what I need and I’ll be out of your hair.” His lip curls into a predatory smile, and I am suddenly aware of how close our bodies are. My heartraces. “Be careful what you wish for, ink slinger. I can think of a few ways to give you what you need.” Hiseyes dip to my parted lips and I feel frozen to the spot. Is Gabriel going to kiss me? And if he does, are we going to reenact our first meeting on top of hisdesk? The thought both thrills and terrifies me. “Stop calling me that,” I manage to rasp. “Fine.” He c***s his head. “How about kitten?” Heat floods my face. I remember him calling me that in the booth. For a second I think that maybe hedoes recognize me, but I bet that’s what he calls all the girls he screws. It’s easier than calling themby their names. Gabriel is toying with me. I know I shouldn’t take the bait, but I can’t help but scowl. “Don’t youdare.” “You’re right. Tiger is much more fitting.” He growls, baring some of his teeth, and I know he is mocking me but the action is so sexy that I can’thelp but squeeze my thighs together. My core aches. Challenging him was a mistake. My mouth has written checks that my body can’t cash and he has won.Again. Only this time, submitting to him doesn’t feel good in the slightest. I bet he does this withevery woman who walks into his path, which just makes me feel used. And angry. “You’re an asshole,” I spit out, snatching my bag and notebook from the floor. Gabriel walks back to his chair and sits down while I storm toward the door. “It was lovely speakingwith you, Ms. Wright. I look forward to reading your article.” I try to slam the door, but it’s got whisper-quiet hinges and slides closed with a pleasant snick. I resistthe urge to punch the heavy wood and march to the elevator. I am just stepping through the rotating front doors of the New York Union building when my phonedings. I have a new email from Gabriel’s assistant, Jenny. Sure enough, she has sent me the documentGabriel mentioned, with a couple of boring quotes and some suggested copy. At this point, it hits methat I have f****d up. For the past couple of years, life has been a struggle. Between my mom losing her battle with cancer,my dad’s unsolved murder, and everything else, I have had to work harder than usual to keep myworld from spinning out of control. One thing I could always rely on was being good at my job, andnow I’ve screwed that up to the high heavens. I take the elevator to my floor and try to slink back to my desk unseen. I can hear the can of barbecuePringles in my snack drawer calling my name. Alexis ... “Alexis.” I freeze. I know that voice, and it’s not coming from a tube of potato chips. I turn on my heel and Debbie is standing behind me, arms folded. “You’re back early.” “Got everything I need,” I say, voice wavering slightly. She c***s a slim brow and purses her cherry-red lips. Today, she is wearing a blue tweed blazer overa pastel pink shirt with matching blue tweed capris. “Did you talk about his relationship with his father?” she inquires. “Uh, no.” “And what about his personal entanglements?” “He said he doesn’t have any.” Her mouth flattens. “Tell me at least that you asked him about why he wanted to donate to the charity.” “He said it’s a cause close to his heart.” She pauses, waiting for me to elaborate. When I don’t, Debbie sighs. “And why is that?” “He didn’t say,” I reply, grimacing. Debbie scowls at me. “So you got nothing.” “I’ll get another interview,” I promise, clasping my hands together. “He’s a tough nut to crack, but ifyou give me a little more time I will smash him into the dirt.” Debbie’s eyes widen and she blinks. “Smash him into the dirt? What the hell happened over there?”She shakes her head. “Don’t answer that. Just get some answers and write me the best article this cityhas seen on Gabriel Belluci. Yes?” “Yes.” “Good.” She smiles tartly. “Off ye go. Toodle pip.” Another day, another media circus. I am standing on a podium outside the main doors of a shiny new elementary school, squinting againstthe sun beating down on me. Beside me, the principal of the new school—Evan Webber—addressesthe crowd of students, parents, and press. The school will welcome hundreds of young minds comeSeptember, and thanks to my business, they will have access to thousands of books and dozens ofcomputers in the Belluci Library. The principal blabbers on, thanking me and the other donors, trying to make jokes that don’t quiteland. Not even the kids are laughing. One of them has his finger up his nose and is staring, deadpan, atthe principal like he is the most boring man in the world. I am beginning to wonder if he is.