Page 90 of Ice Devil

“I sent you a text. Two actually.”

“So what?” I jerked up from the chair, determined to get the hell away from her. Not because I hated her, but because I loathed the anger nearly consuming me. “Let me ask you a question. Who arranged for the interview with the boys from Sports Today?”

“My boss, Matthew Bartholomew.”

I nodded several times. “You mean the guy who appeared on your byline years ago? A particularly nasty story about shifters. More in general but certainly not placing our kind in a decent light.”

Her entire body tensing, she seemed to shrink back. “How did…”

“How did I find out? Well, you see,” I chortled as if any of this was funny. “After you railroaded me with that interview, I did a little digging. People were trying to tell me that you were shocked, unprepared for the questions instead of providing them for two of the most unscrupulous people in sports reporting. Assholes with bad haircuts and even worse taste in clothing.”

“That’s exactly right. And they do have bad haircuts.” She even laughed a little, scorn dripping from her lips.

A groan left my throat that could rival any beast of the night. “Maybe I would have bought it if I hadn’t done a little search on the internet. Two can play at that game, Sloane.”

“I wasn’t playing a game.”

“Oh, really? Well, not only was Matthew Bartholomew someone you worked with, he was also your lover. Wasn’t he?”

Her emotional response changed, her signature scowl returned, her hands on her hips. “That was years ago. A mistake.”

“Uh-huh. What about the trip you took a couple weeks ago? You know, the one where you texted me from the plane?”

I knew the second she realized I’d caught her by the sheer number of expressions furrowing on her face. “It was a business trip.”

“Funny how the picture I was sent depicted otherwise. You seemed nice and cozy at a fancy dinner. Champagne. Wine. My guess you enjoyed lobster and steak while planning exactly how you were going to fuck my career. Right?”

She flinched with my over-emphasis on one bad word that used to have such a delicious meaning. “Beck. I need you to hear me. Okay? What happened wasn’t anything like what you think. The dinner you’re talking about was a surprise to me, forced at the last minute.”

“Forced.” I pressed my hand against my heart. “You certainly had a lovely dress on. Do you always pack rhinestones in your carryon? We should all be forced to attend a lavish dinner in our careers.”

“Another unwanted surprise.” She gritted her teeth.

“What about the shit with the Cruisers’ team? Did you take a photo of me supposedly beating Bronco to within an inch of his life?”

Now she was pissed. “Of course not. If anyone had asked me, I would have told them the truth since I was standing right there. That’s crap.”

“You could have said something in one of your great articles. You know, clearing my name?”

Even her sigh had a guilty conscience. “I was told to leave it alone and let the heat die down. In other words. I had no choice.”

“Really? Well, with the number of photographs and bullshit crossing social media, it ain’t dying down, sweetheart.”

“That’s another reason I’m here.”

I laughed all over again, although completely devoid of any emotion. “Yeah, well, I don’t want you here. So leave.”

“Not until we talk.” Her defiance was nothing but an irritant today. Then again, everything was. “What do you mean someone sent you a picture?”

“Just what I said. In vivid color. The two of you were close to kissing.” Was I jealous?

Fucking hell, yes. And that pissed me off almost more than anything else.

“Who? Who sent it?” She took a step closer and my God, the hunger was off the charts, but I refused to fall for her betrayal ever again.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does. Because⁠—”