Enemy's Secret - Ashlee Price Page 0,15

argument here. I deserve it."

And, just like that, a tension that was hovering over the table lifts. Our conversation gets easy, simple, like with any old friend, but better. Our steak gets delivered, and our red wine too. We eat and drink and talk.

When I'm not thinking about what a dick Landon can be, he can actually be pretty fun. He's jokey, irreverent, and a great conversationalist. We talk about his travels to Prague and the rest of Europe, how he's still working away at reading the whole Robert B. Parker series, how weird it is for him to be President of Storm Media when he always thought that would be Greyson's job.

"It still feels like some weird nightmare-dream," he confesses. "I mean the office - it's Dad's old office - I try to stay away from it. It's... too much. Doesn't feel like mine. Every time I try to even slightly move or shift anything, it feels wrong. Nah, I spend most of my time in my old office, which has all my stuff in it. But God, Kyra, you should see the place - all of Storm Media's offices now. Dad did some renovations a few years back, and it's all windows and sleek modern furniture. He even added some foosball tables and a jungles' worth of tropical plants in the break room. Almost makes me feel like I'm working for Google."

"You're not giving any tours, are you?" I joke.

"Actually..." A dangerous smile comes over Landon's face as his blue eyes ensnare mine. "There's a tour going on tonight."

"Oh?"

"It's a very exclusive, very private tour."

"What about the tour guide?" I say, smirking as I play along.

"Just some guy. The important thing is: you're invited."

By now, we've finished our meal and dessert. We've been lingering at the table, just talking.

I feel light, up for anything.

"Now?" I ask.

"Now," he says.

Don't you dare - this is a bad, a very bad idea, I think.

"OK," I say.

His mouth parts in delighted surprise. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. But it better be free."

"Of course." He's already rising, looking around for our waiter. Then he winks at me. "Although we do accept tips."

Which is how, twenty minutes later, I come to be standing before the door of the offices of Storm Inc. I can't help but think how close I probably am to all the evidence I need to nail them on the plagiarism charges. Surely Colin Storm's journals are squirreled away here somewhere. But the next thing I know, Landon's whisking me inside, pointing out ten things at once. "And over there is our state-of-the-art coffee machine, which can make about five at once, and espresso, and some weird latte thing I think is crap, but Nolan loves. And over there is..."

I let his voice fade to the back of my consciousness as I take it all in. The renovations really were an improvement. The full-wall windows and sleek chrome furniture are gorgeous. It almost feels like a spread in an interior-decorating magazine, or even an Ikea set-up, rather than a real office that has people in it five or however-many days a week.

"And here we are," he says, coming to a stop.

Somehow, we've made it all the way to his office without me noticing.

It's smaller than the one he quickly showed me as his father's. Has a glass desk and a black leather chair that looks big enough for two.

The door is closed behind us.

Landon goes over to sit down, turns himself around a bit. When I finally let myself look at him, I find he's looking right at me.

Hello there, heat between my legs.

"So, this is where it all happens," I say in what I hope is a light voice.

I try to think of an excuse to leave, but my mind is blurry, blank.

His gaze says it already, but then he says it aloud in a hoarse voice: "Come here."

"Landon," I say, rooted to the spot.

I can't leave. I can't stay.

My fists are balled at my sides.

Idiot.

What else did I think would happen, coming here? Even if talking to him was as easy and fun as ever, at the end of the day, he's Landon Storm. He takes what he wants.

God, how could I have let myself forget that?

It seems an eternity, him rising, coming over to me, cupping my face with his hands. That gaze never so much as budging.

"Go away," I murmur.

"Alright," he says, and then he kisses me.

It's soft and giving and a question, one that my body answers instinctively. I pull