Descent (Black Heart Romance presents Heaven & Hell)

“It’s a penthouse and you will. We’ve been over this already.”
He’s unbelievable. I don’t even know what to say to him, honestly. “You’re crazy.”
“If you want me to leave, this is the way. If you want me to stick around, you can keep resisting.
Both choices will have the same result: you will come to my home tomorrow and we will have dinner
together. I say this with 100 percent certainty, and I can assure you, I’m right.”
He’s wrong, and so frustrating that I just want him to leave. Displeasure niggles at me for the lie
I’m about to tell, but I know it’s ridiculous to feel bad for lying to this man after what he has done.
“Fine,” I say shortly. I won’t actually do it, but for him to believe he’s won, I’ll need to seem angry
about it. “What time?”
His lips curve up, pleasure transforming his harsh determination. “Seven o’clock. I’ll send a car
for you.”
“I would prefer somewhere public. I would feel safer.”
His smile shifts, taking on a sinister tilt. “You are as safe as I want you to be, Hallie. Always,
regardless of our venue.”
My stomach flutters at the dark promise in his words. It flutters as if I’m really going to meet him
when I know I’m not.
If I were really going to meet him, I would have a lot more questions.
I’m a little worried about his threat, though. What will he do when I stand him up?
I try to imagine it. Summon a vision of him sitting alone at a table in an expensive Manhattan
restaurant a half hour past the time I was supposed to arrive. I picture his commanding presence, his
simmering disappointment as he swirls the alcohol in his glass before taking a swig, then sits it down
with a decisive thud.
No, wait, that’s not right.
It would be anger, not disappointment.
Disappointment comes from a genuine place; anger would be the feeling if he was only
responding to my defiance.
Following some instinct I don’t quite understand, I look over at him. “How will you feel if I
don’t show up?”
“I’m not worried about that.”
“Yes, I know you’re arrogant,” I murmur, wanting to get past that to the real answer.
Some men look at women as disposable, interchangeable. Objects to be used up and tossed out,
then easily replaced with another. After what he did last night, it would be easy enough to imagine
he’s exactly that sort of man.