Page 29 of Tempting Kat
She pours the bourbon, her eyes never meeting mine. “You know, most people would take the hint when someone's avoiding them.”
“I'm not most people.”
“Yeah, I'm getting that impression.” She caps the bottle and sets it back on the shelf. “So, are we going to talk about it?”
“About what?” I play dumb, enjoying the flash of irritation that crosses her face.
“About this.” She reaches into her back pocket and pulls out a folded napkin—my napkin—flattening it on the bar between us. My name stares up at me, the ink slightly smudged from being handled.
“Conrad,” she says, tapping the napkin. “Is that even your real name? Or just what you're trying to brand on my ass?”
The corner of my mouth twitches. “It's my real name.”
She snorts. “What's the deal with leaving me napkin art? You couldn't just ask for my number like a normal person?”
“Nothing about what I want from you is normal, Katarina.”
Her cheeks flush slightly, but she doesn't back down. “And what exactly do you want from me, Conrad?” The way she says my name—like she's testing it out, rolling it around her tongue—makes my cock throb. I have to bite my tongue so I don’t make a reference that she did the same thing when she called me Mr. Gallo last week.
“Everything,” I say simply.
She laughs, but it's edged with nervousness. “Wow, not setting the bar too high or anything.”
“I never do things halfway.”
“So, I see.” She tucks the napkin back into her pocket. “Well, Conrad, I hate to break it to you, but I'm not for sale.”
“Are you sure about that?” I lean forward, invading her space just enough to make her stiffen. “Everything has a price, Katarina. Everyone does. The only question is whether the buyer can afford it.”
Her eyes widen, her confident smirk faltering for just a moment. She swallows hard, and I track the movement of her throat, imagining my teeth there.
“That's—that's not true,” she stammers, backing up half a step. “Some things aren't for sale.”
“Name one thing,” I challenge, holding her gaze. “One thing that couldn't be bought for the right price.”
She opens her mouth, then closes it, clearly struggling to find an answer that doesn't sound naïve.
“That's what I thought.”
The next night, I'm already seated in the plush wingback chair, waiting. The room is exactly as I specified—dim lighting, temperature precisely seventy-two degrees, and a small table with chilled water.
I check my watch. She's five minutes late. My knee bounces impatiently as I stare at the ornate opening in the wall. Will she show up? Has my little game at the bar scared her off?
The thought of her not coming makes something dangerous rise in my chest.
Just as I'm about to pull out my phone and make some calls, I hear movement on the other side of the wall. My body instantly goes rigid with anticipation.
The intercom crackles to life.
“Hello?” Her voice fills the room, slightly breathless like she rushed to get here.
“Hello, Katarina.” I keep my voice low, controlled, though my heart is racing like a fucking teenager's.
She scoffs, the sound crackling through the speaker. “I see we're still using my full name even though no one does.”
“I'm not no one.” The words come out harder than I intended, an edge of possession I can't quite hide.
“Right,” she drawls. “You're Mr. Six-Figure-Peepshow. How could I forget?”
