Page 8 of The Devil of Downtown

“Accurate.”

For the first time, the corner of his mouth ticks upwards. It’s not quite a smile, more like the shadow of one.

I exhale, careful not to sag in relief. Although it’s mildly alarming that the first hint of approval he’s given me comes from comparing him to large-scale destruction. If I’d known that was the way to his heart, I could’ve come armed with a whole construction manual.

He leans forward, elbows on the desk, the glint of a Patek watch catching the early morning sunlight.

“Traders’ floor. Ten minutes.”

I blink. “Sorry?”

His brow lifts just slightly. Gah, why does it seem like he knows? As if he’s one second away from picking up the phone and having security escort me out.

“Elevator. Traders’ floor. Ten minutes,” he repeats, impatience threading his tone. I swear this man speaks in bullet points, as though affording me fully formed sentences is beneath him.

“Oh, of course, traders’ floor,” I repeat, almost adding, it’s a date, but judging by my last attempt at humor, I clamp my mouth shut before I sabotage Sloane further.

His gaze holds mine a fraction too long, sharp enough to make me squirm. Still holding eye contact, he drags his tongue over the tip of his thumb, then finally looks down, flipping to the next page in his stack of papers as if I’ve already ceased to exist.

My grip tightens on the notebook. God help me—why is that the hottest thing I’ve ever seen?

I seriously need to get out more.

“Is there any reason you’re still standing there, Sloane?”

“Uh—no, sir, I mean, Mr. Black,” I mumble, backing out of the office, bumping into the doorframe like a klutz. I half-jog back to my desk, collapsing into my chair like I’ve sprinted a mile instead of crossing twenty feet of carpet.

I close my eyes and allow myself to have a thirty-second mental breakdown before I grab my phone and fire off a text.

He wants a MF jet??? For later this evening.

Sloane

Call Falcon Aviation and request the standard jet crew. The number is in my contact list folder.

I spend the next nine minutes navigating the world of booking private jets and trying to get my head around the Bexley takeover before his door flies open and he’s marching toward me, slipping his suit jacket on in one smooth motion.

He doesn’t look at me, just beckons me with his finger in a silent command like I’m his pet Labrador.

Why doesn’t he put a leash on me and be done with it?

Great, now my mind has veered into really kinky territory.

I push to my feet, and follow, acutely aware of how tightly wound I feel, like every nerve is stretched thin. How has he wrung every emotion possible out of me in the last twenty minutes while he remains infuriatingly unaffected?

The only thing I haven’t done yet is cry.

Something tells me that’s still on the table.

The elevator doors slide shut, and the air instantly feels too close in the confined space.

He leans back against the mirrored wall, arms folded, watching me with that unnerving composure that makes silence feel like an interrogation.

“Did you return the call from the MP’s office in London last night?” His tone is mild, almost casual, but there’s a bite underneath it.

“I—no. I flagged it for this morning. It’s under control.” A flash of defiance slips into my tone.

“See that you do,” he says, his gaze lingering as though he’s not just measuring my answer but me, like I revealed a tiny crack in my armor and given him a glimpse of Ivy.