“No.” I step in front of him, putting myself between him and the desk, which is possibly the least intelligent thing I have done today, and today has had real competition. “I came here, and I made a deal. It’s done. You don’t get to come in here and throw your money around and make my decisions for me.”
He looks at me. His eyes are very bright and very close, and I refuse to look away.
“You weren’t making a decision,” he says. “You were checking out.”
The words land somewhere they shouldn’t.
I release his wrist. “That’s none of your business.”
“It is my business.” Something shifts in his jaw. “It became my business the second you walked out of my house and came here.”
“You told me to leave.”
“I know what I said.” His voice drops further, which I hadn’t thought possible. “Move out of the way.”
I don’t move.
He looks at me for a long moment. Then he drags me over to the couch at the other end of the room and deposits me on it. “Stay here.”
Before I can comprehend what just happened, he takes the paper from the desk, reads the number, and takes his checkbook from his jacket.
He opens it on the desk and writes. The scratch of the pen is the only sound in the room. When he’s done, he tears the check out and drops it in front of Kozlov like something he’s finished with.
“The extra hundred thousand covers your men,” he says coolly. “They came to her apartment. I assume they haven’t called in.” He gives Kozlov a meaningful look. “The money is for your loss. The condition attached to it is that you don’t look at her again. You don’t call her. You don’t send anyone near her. We don’t exist to you. Do we have an understanding?”
Kozlov picks up the check. His hand is steady, but the ease is gone from his face entirely.
“We have an understanding,” he says.
Grayson looks at him for one more second. Then he turns and takes my arm and walks me out.
The hallway is marble and silence and a large man sitting against the wall with a split lip who watches us pass without comment. The lobby is exactly as it was when I walked in. The doorman looks at Grayson and then quickly away.
We go out into the gray morning.
“Let go of me.” I pull at my arm. His grip doesn’t shift. “Grayson. I said let go.”
“Get in the car.”
“I’m not getting in your car.”
He opens the passenger door and looks at me, and his face says that this is not a conversation we are having. “Get in the car yourself, or I’ll throw you in.”
He means it. Reluctantly, I get in.
He pulls the car into traffic, and I ask tightly, “Where are you taking me?”
“Somewhere we can talk.” His voice is grim, and for the first time since I woke up today, I feel something. I wish I could call it anger.
It would be so much easier if it were anger.
Chapter Thirteen
Grayson
My knuckles arewhite as I grip the steering wheel.
I keep both hands on it because I don’t trust myself right now. It’s been ten minutes since we left the city behind us. Miranda hasn’t uttered a word since we got in the car. She hasn’t even looked at me. Her hands are still in her lap, unmoving.
