Page 72 of Undertow

I sense Scarlett’s displeasure at my casual reaction. The only way to deal with wolves is not to give them a single thing to sink their teeth into. Once they smell blood, it’s over.

“No budget.” Merrick pushes away from the doorjamb, and I follow him into the living area of the suite. “You have three days to get invited to the sit-down in New Orleans in December.”

“Three days?”

It will be a miracle if I get invited to a sit-down for a drink in three days. I know McArthur is eager for stronger ties with the RLC, but setting unrealistic expectations accomplishes nothing. Throwing his daughter in as another obstacle makes it even harder. I can’t tell if he’s clueless or cruel for that one.

Merrick shrugs. “You’re lucky you gotthatlong after the fuckup in Toronto.”

My jaw clenches at the reprimand, rage seeping into my veins. Toronto was a success by every definition except for an ignorant egotist like McArthur. He gave me an impossible assignment and I still pulled it off—with the scars to prove it.

A bitter defense erupts from my throat, and I clamp my lips shut. We’ve already had this battle. A re-match won’t impact the war.

But something new flashes in Merrick’s eyes before he turns away. Something like… understanding. Maybe he doesn’t follow the party line as much as he lets on.

“Try not to get yourself tortured this time,” he quips on his way to the exit.

I hover in the silence after he leaves, willing my heated blood to cool back to ice.

I need to keep myself together. There’s an even greater challenge waiting in the other room.

“This one,” Scarlett says in a sultry tone when I finally return to the bedroom.

She holds out a pair of men’s swim trunks that she must have retrieved from my belongings. Sure enough, my suitcaseis spread open on the bed in a chilling premonition. My entire existence on display and at her fingertips.

She tosses the swimsuit toward me, and I snag it from the air.

“Swimming?” I ask. “We’re on a tight deadline.”

“Exactly. Everyone knows business is done best by the pool.”

Shit. She’s right. Our approach needs to be organic and casual. That doesn’t happen in a three-piece suit at dinner.

“Fine.” I unbutton my shirt with deliberate movements to send her a hint. Her targeted stare tells me she’s going to ignore it.

Shaking my head, I force down the irritation and continue to undress. This is another power play, and I refuse to give her more by hiding like an embarrassed adolescent.

I work methodically—shirt, pants, underwear—careful not to acknowledge her predatory stare that chills and heats my blood in a confusing mix of sensation.

She’s beautiful.

She’s connected.

She’s the best chance I have of surviving my life as a McArthur hostage, so what exactly is my objection?

I wrestle with that question as I pull on the swim shorts, warming from the throbbing tension in the room. A tunnel of lust radiates from her eyes to my body when I finally meet her gaze. I straighten with a challenging look, once again giving no hint of surrender. She wants me? She can fight for it. Because there is not a damn thing I give freely.

“You wearing that to swim?” I ask as I scan her silk blouse and tailored dress pants.

A smile breaks on her lips when she interprets my challenge. “You want to choose my suit? It’s only fair.” She waves toward her suitcase, also open on the bed.

Her fingers brush the top button of her shirt before slipping the button through the eye. The fabric falls open, exposing the soft mounds of her breasts. Expensive lace peeks through the opening, screaming of plans made long before this moment. I’m playing into her hand with this game, but that’s the tragedy of our situation. It doesn’t matter what I do. She holds both sets of cards.

“I think you misunderstand me, Roman.” Her silky tone caresses my ears in the same way her fingers drift over her smooth skin. It’s a mesmerizing synchronicity of senses. Touch. Sound. Smell. I can’t look away. “Deep down we both want the same things. The ‘want’ just manifests differently. Think of what we could accomplish if we let those desires intersect?”

Pretty words. Pretty words I never expected from her pretty mouth.

“Open your mind a little,” she continues. “There’s a much larger spectrum between yes and no than your pride is acknowledging. You already operate in the gray, Roman Shaw. Everything you do, everything youare,is a compromise.”