Page 33 of Beg For Me (Morally Gray #3)

I try not to read anything into the nervous look on her face.

I knock before entering, then stick my head through the door. “Good afternoon, Mr. Hartman. You wanted to see me?”

He gestures impatiently for me to enter. “Yes, come in. And please close the door.”

Smoothing my hands down my skirt, I cross the plush expanse of carpet that separates us, then sit in one of the large brown leather chairs opposite his massive oak desk. He removes his glasses, drops them onto the desk blotter, sits back in his chair, and clasps his hands over his stomach.

Then he stares at me in expectant silence.

This is a tactic I’m familiar with. The vast majority of people are extremely uncomfortable with silence, so if you’re looking for a confession—say you’re a police officer interrogating a suspect—you ask a question, then wait.

Then wait some more, even after the person answers, until they finally get so nervous, they spill their guts.

Mr. Hartman doesn’t have a teenage daughter, however, so he doesn’t understand that I’m an expert at guerilla warfare.

I cross my legs, fold my hands in my lap, and smile pleasantly.

He’s a big man in his late sixties with a silver crewcut and a mole on his cheek that looks vaguely malignant. Tall and barrel-chested, he can be intimidating when he wants to be.

Right now, he wants to be. His expression hovers somewhere between prison warden and crime boss.

Finally, he breaks. “We have a situation.”

“What kind of situation?”

“A delicate one. Have you seen today’s edition of Celebrity Insider ?”

I recognize the name. It’s a tabloid, and a salacious one.

I have a bad feeling about this.

Holding his gaze, I say calmly, “No. I don’t read gossip magazines. Why do you ask?”

He stares at me for another beat, then opens the top drawer of his desk. From it, he removes a magazine. He tosses it across his desk toward me.

“Page four.”

Filled with trepidation, I pick up the magazine and flip through the pages, already guessing what I might find. But my breath still catches when I see the images that accompany a short article titled “Billionaire Playboy Finds a New Playmate.”

There are three pictures of Carter and me.

The first shows us walking into the Italian restaurant in Venice on our first date. It’s taken from the back, but we’re in profile, talking to each other, so the viewer can see part of our faces. Carter’s hand rests at the small of my back.

The second photograph is grainy, as if taken from a distance through a long lens. It shows Carter kissing my hand at the table we shared at Nobu Malibu overlooking the sand. My face is fuzzy, but my smile is unmistakable. Carter’s hair is a flame of gold in the setting sun.

From the angle, it appears that the photographer was out on the ocean on a boat.

The third picture is crystal clear. Carter and I sit on the sofa in front of the outdoor fireplace at his home, our bare feet propped up on the wooden table. We’re both holding wineglasses as we kiss.

Whoever took this picture was close. So close, I can even see the glint of firelight reflected off our wineglasses.

They were probably peering over his backyard fence.

My stomach roils. I feel sick and violated. Someone has been stalking us, taking pictures of us, and selling them to magazines.

This might be one article of many. This might only be the tip of a very nasty iceberg because I don’t think the shades were drawn on the French doors that led from the backyard to the living room of Carter’s house that night.

The living room where I had him on all fours as I spanked his naked ass with a wooden spoon.

My mind and pulse racing, I glance up at Mr. Hartman.

He says, “That’s Carter McCord. And you.”

I toss the magazine back onto his desk and fold my hands in my lap again. Now, they’re clammy. “Yes, it is.”

He curses, shaking his head. “This is bad, Sophia. This is very bad for us.”

“Us? You’re not the one being stalked by paparazzi.”

“They mention you by name . They give your position at this company. Do you have any idea how the stockholders will react to this news? Not to mention the rest of the industry? Do you know what this looks like?”

I recall Val telling me about her hairdresser seeing Carter in the gossip rags with a string of women and wince internally.

I’m the newest one on the string.

Stoic, I say, “My personal life has nothing to do with the shareholders.”

He groans. “Hell’s bells, you know better than that! It’s no big secret he met with us last year to propose a buyout. How does this look, now, the two of you sneaking around together?”

“No one has been sneaking anywhere or plotting anything. I had no idea we were being followed, but I can assure you, I’ll be pressing charges against that rag for invasion of privacy, along with anything else I can sue for.

And, if you’re worried about me sharing information I shouldn’t, I remind you that I signed an ironclad NDA when I joined this company. I haven’t broken it.”

“How am I supposed to believe that?”

His voice keeps rising, but I maintain the same low, controlled tone. “Are you questioning my integrity?”

“No, I’m questioning your sanity. Carter McCord? You’re too smart for this, Sophia. He’s a dilettante!”

“That’s what I thought too, until I got to know him better. You can’t always go by first impressions.”

He scoffs. “I know his family. I know his history. I’ve known guys like him my whole life. Spoiled, entitled rich kids with nothing in their heads but partying, getting laid, and—”

“That’s enough .”

My voice cuts through his tirade like a sword. Stunned, he stares at me.

He’s never heard me raise my voice, but if he says another negative word about Carter, he’ll hear a whole lot more than that.

After a beat, he regains his composure. “So this is a thing for you, then. A serious thing. You’re going to keep seeing him.”

I do away with the respect he doesn’t deserve and address him by his first name, which it’s rumored he hates. Unsurprisingly.

“Listen, Mervin, I appreciate your position, and I know you’re not coming from a place of malice, but unless what I’m doing is illegal or unethical, I don’t owe you or anyone an explanation about what I do outside this office.”

He says flatly, “Now you’re just being na?ve.”

“I’ll thank you not to patronize me.”

We glare at each other until his phone rings and breaks the stalemate. He sighs and waves a hand toward the door.

“Fine. Go have a nice weekend. Try not to end up on the cover of People magazine. We’ll revisit this after I talk to legal.”

He picks up the line, dismissing me. I rise and walk to the door with my head held high but my stomach in knots and my heart aching.

I knew being with Carter would have its challenges, but I didn’t expect the world to start sharpening its knives so soon. The worst part is that I know this is fight far from over.

It’s only just begun.