Page 23 of The Billionaires' Gamble

He waits another beat as my patience crackles. “Talk.”

“Are you gonna let me go?”

“It’s better that you face the wall, so I won’t see your face and want to rearrange it.”

He wilts at that, which is what I was after. Maybe he’s never loved anyone before because he obviously doesn’t understand the lengths I’ll go to keep Katherine safe.

“What about her mother?”

“She wants Katherine’s inheritance.”

“Why?”

“The Cort family is selling. She doesn’t have the money, and no one’s going to get into bed with her.”

Well, that’s an interesting tidbit.

“How do you know this?”

“How do you think?”

They’re fucking. Of course.

“Why were you going to warn Katherine?”

“She might not have picked me, but she needs to be aware of just how far her mother is willing to go.”

He was trying to protect her? My grip loosens.

“What do you mean?”

“She’s fighting a dead man. Lucinda will never be good enough in her father’s eyes, and she’ll do whatever it takes to win.”

He sounds almost disgusted by her vendetta, and maybe that’s why he was willing to break Lucinda’s confidence.

“What does she want?”

“Everything.”

I let him go and step back. That’s quite a demon to fight. And I hate that my suspicions were true. That Tyler has laid all out in black and white.

“Thanks for the information.”

“Watch her back.”

“Oh, I will.” And if I’m not there to do it, Kingston or Gabe will be.

Sharing her is suddenly the best idea ever. Knowing that she’s loved and protected on three counts brings me a measure of peace. Not that my shoulders relax.

I take the stairs back up to the restaurant level, open the door, and glance around at the posh space. There’s soft music and even softer lighting. It smells good in here. Gabe would love it.

The hostess isn’t at her station, which has me reaching for the down button to call the elevator. The doors open a split second later, and I step on, relaxing another fraction. I don’t want to have to explain who I am or what’s going on to a snooty restaurant manager. Or worse, the police.

Tyler’s a little banged up, but he’s still breathing.

I hit the button for the parking deck, and the doors begin to close. Pulling out my phone, I open my texts, hoping for an update from Roman. Or Katherine. Or both.

“Hold the elevator.”