The Devil You Know (The Devils #3)(9)

His employees watch us move across the room, as if Webber’s leading me upstairs to take my virginity, and when we reach the top floor, I understand why—the restaurant is posh, quiet, and romantic. I’m decidedly uncomfortable when he holds my chair for me then orders us a bottle of red without even asking me if I’d like a drink. He’s the type of guy who’s experienced a bit of success and let it go to his head. I guarantee he cheats at everything—marriage, taxes, corporate expenditures—and rationalizes all of it. I know men like this well. I was raised by one, after all.

I try to turn the conversation to his company’s legal needs, and he waves me off. “We’ll get to all that. Are you hungry? Let’s order some food.”

“I’ve eaten, thank you,” I say crisply. It’s a lie, but I’m not willing to be stuck with this man for ninety minutes over a steak dinner, especially not when he’s clearly a let’s mix business with pleasure kind of guy.

The waiter pours him a taste of the wine, and he swirls it in his glass, sniffs it, then swishes it in his mouth. He nods his approval without making eye contact, as if he’s royalty.

It’s obnoxious. I bet Ben Tate does the same fucking thing.

“So, tell me what you do when you’re not at work,” he says once the waiter is gone.

“I work seven days a week,” I reply. “I rep—”

“We need to change that,” he cuts in. “You’re way too pretty to spend all your free time working.”

Ugh.

I begin again. “As I was saying, I represented—”

“Have you ever been on a yacht?” he asks, and I give up. This guy does not give two shits what kind of work I’ve done. He probably doesn’t even care that I went to law school. I’m simply here to be his pretty audience for the night, and nothing more.

I patiently listen as he tells me about his yacht, namedrops every celebrity he’s ever met and every model he’s ever dated, and then shares a somewhat pointless story about partying with “Demi” at Art Basel. What he does not do, no matter how many times I broach the topic, is discuss West Forest’s legal needs.

Gemma Charles, FMG’s first female partner, I repeat in my head.

I heave a sigh of relief when he pours the last of the wine in our glasses and throws his credit card on the table.

“Have you ever gone sailing around Coronado?” he asks. “We should go sometime.”

“Like I said, I work seven days a week, so that would be a stretch. And speaking of work—”

He winks at me. “You come with me to Coronado, I’m happy to tell your boss we were working.”

My jaw has begun to ache with the effort of faking my polite smiles. “I prefer work to yachting, I’m afraid.”

“I can see you’re going to be a challenge. That’s okay. I like a challenge.”

I’m not interested in being a challenge; I’m interested in drumming up business, and we haven’t spoken about work at all. How much longer do I have to pretend to care about this man’s dumb hobbies and social life?

“Let’s discuss what your firm can do for us,” he says when we get downstairs. He walks outside and I follow, wondering why the hell he’s only bringing this up now. “My place is right around the corner, and I have a very nice Veuve Clicquot in the fridge.”

Oh, my fucking God. I don’t need anyone’s business so much that I’ll spend an hour in his apartment fending him off to get it.

“I’ve got to be in early tomorrow.” I extend my hand. “But it was nice to meet you.”

He grabs my wrist and pulls me against him. “I liked meeting you,” he says, standing way too close. “A lot.”

And then he presses my hand to his crotch.

I gasp, and he grins, as if this is all playfully charming. I try to pull my hand back but he holds my wrist tight, and places my closed fist against his erection.

“Let go of my hand,” I snap.

His grip tightens. “Come on, Gemma. I think this could work for us both.”

It’s not the first time I’ve been hit on by a client, but it’s by far the most egregious. “Let go of my wrist right now.”

He moves my fist over his length instead. “You’ve had me hard all through dinner. You seem like fun.”

I open my palm, then grab him and squeeze as hard as I possibly can. “How fun do I seem now, asshole?” I demand.

He releases my wrist at last, gasping in pain.

“You fucking bitch,” he hisses as I walk to my car.

I flip him off, but my hands are shaking as I fumble with my keys.

In a different sort of world, I’d be going straight to the police to file charges, or straight to the media to tell them what an utter douche the CEO of West Forest is. In the real world, I’m on the cusp of getting the promotion I’ve always wanted, and the last thing I need right now is to get pegged as a hysterical female and have the partners suggesting I invited what Webber just did.

I want the world to be a different place for the women who come after me. And the only way to make that happen is to ignore the fact that it isn’t different yet.

But I’m so goddamned tired of staying silent just to get the things I deserve.