Chapter 2
Emery's POV
The second time I crossed the threshold of Roman Hart's penthouse, I was wearing black again. Not for mourning my dignity though that would have been understandable, but because black was armor. And if I was going back to the dragon's lair, I was going back for war.
This time, not a luxury vehicle. No daydreams. I arrived in the service elevator weighed down with armloads of redesigned sample pieces and a warning in my mouth.
Say no. Leave. Stand your ground. You'll find another job.
I repeated it to myself like a slogan.
But the minute I opened the door, I knew I was caught.
He was already there, standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, this time without a jacket, sleeves rolled up, shirt crisp and open at the collar like he was trying to look casual. Like he hadn't deliberately calculated the angle of every wrinkle.
"Ms. Blake," Roman said, turning toward me. "You're punctual today."
"Let's not play games," I told him, pacing around the room to the enormous kitchen island and unloading my folder. "You invited me. You had cold feet. So let's get to where I say no in a gracious manner and we both go our own way with dignity."
"No theatrics." He gestured toward the marble stool across from him. "Sit."
"I'm good standing."
He didn't argue. Instead, he leaned over into a slender black folder on the counter and shoved something at me.
A contract.
I blinked.
It was plump. Glossy. New, fresh from the printer. And resting on top of it like a period was a check. I caught a flash of the figure and near-released my sketchbook.
"You doubled my fee," I said slowly. "Why?"
"Because I want the job done well, quietly, and fast. Your portfolio is okay. Your attitude is horrible. But I like results over personality."
I tilted my head. "Wow. You almost succeeded in making that a compliment."
"It wasn't."
I should have stood up and walked out. Right then and there.
Instead, I picked up the check.
"I'm not cheap," I said. "I'm just broke."
He smiled very slightly. "Then we're both getting what we want."
I cut him off. "You're not doing this just for your board, are you?"
He stiffened.
Fascinating.
"Desperate," I continued softly, "or at least, in secrets."
His jaw flexed. Slightly. But I saw it.
"Too much reading between the lines," he countered with a smooth grin.
"I'm a designer. Reading the room is literally my job."
I paused, half anticipating him calling me dramatic again. Instead, he clicked the tip of the contract.
"Your terms?"
I narrowed my eyes. "No flirting."
"Wasn't planning on it."
"No favors outside the scope of design. No personal running around, no cocktail parties, and absolutely no posing with throw pillows for interviews."
"Understood."
"And no feelings. This is still professionally only."
Roman picked up the pen, signed without blinking, and shoved it back in my direction.
"See how long those last."
My stomach did a small, unhelpful flip.
I straightened my shoulders. "They'll last."
He leaned back against the counter, studying me as if I were a finished product he was reassembling.
I was about to pack up and leave when I noticed something odd.
One of the side doors apparently to his office was open a crack, and beyond it I could hear a voice. Distorted. Panicked. Definitely Roman's.
I crept towards the sound slowly, pretending to examine a piece of artwork on the wall.
"I said I'd take care of it," growled Roman. His own smooth, measured voice was cracked. "No, they have no idea. And if they do investigate, I'll bury the story myself."
There was a silence.
Then: "You're not getting another penny until I get evidence."
I shivered.
He wasn't negotiating with a business associate. This wasn't being done in boardrooms above high-rises and penthouse living rooms.
He was being blackmailed.
Roman stepped out of the room one second later and stopped dead in his tracks when he noticed me standing there.
I turned around, quickly. "Sorry. I was distracted by this. painting. Is that a genuine Klein?"
He didn't answer. His eyes scanned mine like he already knew what he'd heard me hear and was weighing whether or not to trust me.
"Meeting's over," he said brusquely. "My assistant will e-mail you the keys and arrange."
Sure," I replied, as if nothing had happened.
But as I left, I couldn't help but have the questions running through my head.
What kind of billionaire gets blackmailed?
What was he so desperate to keep from the public that he'd pay twice my rate to manipulate a story?
And why did I feel like I'd just signed up for something very much more dangerous than redecorating?
Roman stepped out of the office, and for a moment he didn't utter a word. His gaze nailed me the way a hawk catches prey in flight. The playful flirtation was forgotten his whole manner sharpened like a knife.
I took a step back slowly. "I wasn't eavesdropping," I lied, though we both knew I was.
He said nothing. Just looked at me with that cold, impenetrable stare of his.
"It's a lovely work," I said, gesturing toward the painting hanging on the wall I'd feigned admiration for. "Bold, messy. Conceals more than it reveals."
Silence.
"Fine," I said, picking up my folder from the counter, doing my best to keep my tone even. "I'll wait for your assistant's email."
He stepped aside to permit my passage. "You signed the contract," he said as I reached the door.
"I did."
"Then I expect results. And discretion."
I nodded, my heart pounding. "Of course."
"And Emery..." His voice had fallen to a lower, darker level. "Mind staying out of rooms that aren't yours."
I didn't answer. Just moved into the elevator and pressed the button, watching for the doors to shut.
When they did at last, I let out the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.
Roman Hart was richer than rich and more infuriating than infuriating.
And he was hiding something something massive under his sleeve.
And whatever it was, I'd just gotten a redecorating job right in the middle of it.
What had I done?
I looked down at the contract in my hand.
My limits were still in place technically. But my stomach was already sending me warning bells: if I wasn't careful, Roman Hart could be the one to break me.
And the worst part?
There was a small, nasty part of me that didn't care.
If I had believed the penthouse would be business as usual, I was wrong. The moment I entered through the massive steel doors on the first real day of work, I knew this project would be no cakewalk. The space was chilly, clinical, and too sanitized. As if constructed to repel people instead of draw them in.
Roman was already there when I arrived. Slumped against the floor-to-ceiling windows, not even turning his head as I walked in. Just staring out at the Manhattan skyline as though waiting for something to fall out of it.
"Good morning," I ventured.
"You're late," he replied without looking around.