The desk itself looks like it could have belonged to a railroad baron with its carved details and commanding presence. Two black leather armchairs sit angled toward the desk. Behind them, a leather sofa faces a stone fireplace, its mantel decorated with a few carefully chosen art pieces.
The entire space smells like leather, aged wood, and just a hint of Knox's cologne. That dark, intoxicating scent that seems to follow him everywhere.
He shrugs out of his jacket and tie and tosses them onto the sofa in the corner. Then he rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, revealing thick tattooed forearms as he moves toward the glass cabinet behind his desk with the same fluid grace that made the crowd part for him earlier. Every movement he makes seems deliberate and controlled.
What are you up to, Knox?
Why don’t you just put me out of my misery already?
I couldn’t ask him about the game while we were at the Astoria because there were too many people around on our way out. I couldn’t on the way here either because of Don. Now we’re here, and he’s acting like we’re hanging out.
I watch him carefully as he retrieves two long-stemmed glasses and a bottle of wine from the lower shelf. The label catches the light, showing off a fancy French title I can’t even try to pronounce. No doubt it costs within the thousand-dollar range. Or more.
"Wine?" he asks, already pouring the deep red liquid into both glasses. His voice is casual, but there's an undercurrent of something darker threading through it.
The question feels loaded. Like accepting might mean more than just sharing a drink.
But honestly, after what happened at the party, I need something to calm my nerves. My body is still humming from the aftershocks of his touch, and I hate myself for it.
"Sure," I manage, proud of how steady my voice sounds.
Knox slides the glass over to me, and our fingers brush as I take it. The contact sends an unwelcome jolt through my system, and from the slight curve of his mouth, I know he felt it, too.
"Where did you actually get that dress?" He looks me up and down.
I take a sip of wine, buying myself time. It's smooth and rich and definitely hits the spot. “Charity shop," I answer honestly. "Took me three stores to find something this hideous."
“You did well.” Knox's eyes glitter with amusement, and I realize he's enjoying the fact that I schemed and plotted and ultimately played right into his hands. "I can see why you thought I’d be so embarrassed I’d forfeit."
“Did I at least embarrass you?”
“You did. But here’s the thing, love. I’m one of the finest investors on Wall Street. You need a thick hide just to exist. Also…” He looks me over again. “When you look the way you do, you could wear anything and call it fashion.”
God. Did he seriously just give me a compliment?
I take another sip of wine for courage. "Are you going to tell me what this game of yours is called? Or are you going to flirt with me all night?"
He laughs, completely unrepentant. "For the record, I don’t flirt, and if you think that was flirting, your previous boyfriends clearly set the bar embarrassingly low."
My stomach squeezes.
"The game is called Riddles," he says, getting back on topic.
"Riddles? Like ‘Riddle me this’kind of riddles?"
“Yes, that kind of thing.”
I’m not sure if I should be relieved or terrified. The game sounds innocent enough, but nothing with Knox is exactly innocent.
He straightens and moves closer, wine glass in hand. "We get five turns each and one chance to answer. To win, you must get at least three right. Three wrong answers in a row is an instant loss. Three right ones an instant win. The first person to get three right wins. If that’s you, I’ll forfeit the contract. You keep your restaurant, your freedom,everything."
God, it sounds too easy. And definitely way too good to be true. "And if I lose?"
That predatory smile returns, the one that reminds me of Shere Khan stalking through the jungle. "Like I said, you give me anything I want. No questions asked. No resistance. However, if you don’t give me what I want, you forfeit."
“That’s not going to happen.”
“Then it looks like we have an agreement.” A mirthless grin dances across his lips. “Do we need another contract, or is our word good enough?”
