What He Decides (What He Wants, Book Eleven) (An Alpha Billionaire Romance) (3 page)

He’s not the man for you,
Charlotte,
I told
myself.
 
And that fact that I could
have thought he was, even for a moment… well, maybe Noah was right.
 
Maybe I was naïve.

I downed the rest of my wine, then poured
myself another cup.

My phone began ringing, Noah’s name
flashing on the caller ID.

I sent it to voicemail, knowing it would
anger him.

Sure enough, a second later, a text
appeared.

Answer me.

I guffawed.
 
Answer me.
 
Wow.
 
How over-the-top
arrogant.

I was sick of him having all the power.

I stared at the bottle of wine and
considered finishing it off.

My phone buzzed again.

Fine.
 
I’m coming over.

Excitement and relief pulsed through me, but
it was short-lived, burning out fast and replaced by a searing rage.
 
How insulting.
 
Did he just think I was going to allow
him to come over here?
 
So he could
do what?
 
Certainly he wouldn’t
want to talk.
 
He’d want to tie me
up and spank me, collar me with his belt so he could relieve whatever emotions
he was wrestling with, only to toss me aside again when he’d burnt off his
feelings.
I was done playing that game.

A warm drowsiness overtook me as the
alcohol slid through my veins.
 
I
closed my eyes and imagined Noah showing up at my apartment, frenzied and
crazed.
 
He would bend me over, he
would fuck me from behind, he would spank me until I was bruised, he would kiss
me until I was breathless and wanting.
 
I thought about taking him in my mouth, how good he would feel as his
fingers moved through my hair.

I flushed.

Maybe I would let him come over, I
thought.

Maybe he would have an explanation.
 
Maybe he would tell me he was wrong,
maybe he would promise he would never try to leave me again.

I felt myself sinking back into the
addiction, the obsession, the hold he had on me.
 
Ever since I’d met him, my life had revolved around Noah
Cutler.If he came here, if he showed up and knocked on my door, I wasn’t sure
I’d be strong enough to turn him away.

My eyes flew open.

I needed to get out of my apartment,
needed to leave here before he arrived.
 
I wasn’t strong enough to resist him on my own.

I was still wearing his sweater, and I
pulled the fabric to my face, inhaling his scent.
 
Then I grabbed my purse and walked out the door.

***

The streets of New York comforted me.

The pulse of energy, the lights, the
cacophony of voices as people moved through the falling night to their
destinations reminded me there was a whole world outside of Noah Cutler, a whole
world of people and places and parties and other men, men who were handsome and
young and didn’t have complicated histories that involved murder and BDSM
clubs.

But those men weren’t Noah.

I kept walking, upping my pace until my
breathing became slightly labored.
 
The physical exertion distracted me from my emotional distress. I
wondered how long I would have to stay out here, how long I’d have to avoid my
apartment until Noah gave up and went home.

I didn’t have to wait long to find out.

He began texting me.

I’m at your apartment.
 
Where
are you?

Charlotte, I am not joking.

Fine.
 
I will wait here until you return.

I started to text him back, to tell him
to leave me alone, but then I realized that was exactly what he wanted.
 
He wanted to get a reaction out of
me.
 
My only chance of getting free
was to make sure I didn’t engage with him at all – if I did, he would
entangle me in his web until I was helpless.

I would go to a hotel, I decided.

I would spend the night there.

I would wake up tomorrow and go to my
meeting with Clementine.

I would testify at Noah’s evidentiary
hearing.
 
I would do my best to
tell the truth.

And then I would never talk to him again.

***

I ducked into a twenty-four hour souvenir
store and bought a pair of I Heart NY pajama pants, then stopped at Duane Reade
and purchased a toothbrush, some toothpaste, and a tube of face wash.

I checked into a hotel in midtown,
wincing at the three hundred dollar price tag just for a place to sleep.
  
I thought briefly about using
Noah’s credit card to charge the room in a final act of defiance, but in the
end, my pride won out and I used my own.

Once I was in my room, I turned on a
movie and cracked open a bottle of wine from the mini bar, wondering if the
cost would put my credit card over its limit.
 
My buzz was starting to fade, and the sharp edges of reality
had begun to push into my head.
 
I
drank quickly, trying to outrun the anger and sadness, to dull it before it
took over.

I hated him.

I hated him so much.

I thought about how much he’d hurt me
tonight, how he’d told me he loved me and then just casually threw me to the
side, just like he’d done before.
 
I could feel the wine bleeding into my thoughts as I attempted to come
up different revenge scenarios, different ways I could hurt him.
 

But there was nothing.

He had control.

Of everything.

Not everything.

I sat up straight on the bed, a devious
plan beginning to form in my head.

Noah had said he wouldn’t allow me to
help him figure out who had killed Katie, wouldn’t allow me to put myself in
danger by making it clear that he and I were together.
 
But I didn’t need Noah
for the killer to know we were dating – I could do
that on my own.

I grabbed my phone and googled Noah’s
name until I found an article that had been written about him last year in the
New York Times, after he’d won some big case.
 
Mr. Fancy Pants
Lawyer,
I thought, and
made a raspberry with my mouth.
 
La-de-da.

Even in my half-inebriated state, I knew
enough to know that the New York Times wouldn’t be interested in what I had to
say.

I returned to the results, scrolling
through until I found something from the City Herald, a trashy tabloid that was
known for its sensationalistic headlines, the kind of paper that was constantly
getting sued for reporting stories that couldn’t be corroborated.

They’d written something a few months ago
about Noah being linked to an up-and-coming actress named Juliet Goodwin.
 
Apparently Juliet had been
broken-hearted and devastated when she realized Noah didn’t return her
feelings.
 
According to the
article, Juliet wanted the big white wedding and the 2.5 kids and the picket
fence.
 
And Noah wouldn’t give it
to her.
 
It was all about how Noah
was a playboy, most eligible bachelor, blah blah blah.

The author of the article was named Ryan
Ramos.

I giggled.

Ryan Ramos.

 
He sounded like an exotic-looking model, not a reporter.

His email address was right there, just a
quick click away, and even though I wasn’t even sure he was employed by the
paper anymore, I clicked the link.

Dear Mr. Ramos,

I am writing to let you know that
my name is Charlotte Holloway, and I have been dating Noah Cutler for the past
few weeks.
 
I am a law student and
I am going to be called as a witness at his evidentiary hearing!!!!
 
It is sooo crazy, like we are sooo in
love omg.
 
You should write about
this, because it is a big story.
 
Don’t you think your readers would like to know about how Noah is dating
a member of his legal team?

I’m not sure what’s going to
happen, since all the women he is with show up dead.
 

Anyway.

Just thought you should know.

Sincerely yours,

Charlotte Holloway

My phone made a swooshing sound as the
email was hurled off into cyberspace, and I sighed in satisfaction. If Noah thought
he could just silence me, well… he had another thing coming.

I smiled and sank back against the soft
pillows of the bed, reveling in the feeling of taking control of my life.
 
If Ryan Ramos printed something about
Noah and I, it would definitely lure out whoever killed Katie, would definitely
make them come after me.

I laughed and took another sip of wine.

I must have fallen asleep, or maybe I
just passed out, because the next thing I knew the fancy alarm clock on the
nightstand was blaring.
 
It was 8
am.
 
Obviously my wine-induced
stupor hadn’t been enough to stop me from remembering I needed to be up early
for my meeting with Clementine.

I sat up and wiped my lips.
 
I’d been drooling on the pillow. My
mouth was dry and felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton, and a pounding
headache was starting at my temples.

I reached for my phone, which was dead on
the bed next to me.

Sun streamed through the windows, and I
couldn’t tell if it was because I was hung over or because it was really that
bright, but it made my eyes sting.

I plugged my phone into its charger and
watched as the screen came to life.

Fourteen text messages, all from Noah.

Four voicemails, all from Noah.

I shut my phone off again without reading
them.

Then I dragged myself into the shower.
 

I turned the water as hot as it would go,
but it didn’t help.
 
My stomach
lurched and I leaned against the cold tile, hoping it would settle me.
 
But it didn’t.
 
The room was spinning.

I thought for sure I was going to throw
up, but my some miracle, I didn’t.
 

When I was done showering, I dried off
and dressed in the same clothes I’d been wearing last night -- Noah’s sweater
and my blue jeans.
 
I didn’t have
any fresh clothes, or even any make up.
 
All I had was a hairbrush and a lip gloss I found buried in the bottom
of my purse.

I swiped the gloss over my lips, but it
didn’t help.
 
If anything, it just
accentuated the hollowness of my cheeks, the dark circles under my eyes, the
pallor of my skin.

Whatever,
I thought crankily.
 
I didn’t have anyone to impress.

By the time I left the hotel, my stomach
was settled but my nerves were jumping.
 
I decided to walk the fifteen blocks to Professor Worthington’s office
instead of taking the subway, hoping the walk and the fresh air would help me
burn off some of my energy.

When I got to the building, my stomach
lurched again.
 
But it wasn’t from
all the wine I’d consumed last night.
 
It was from nerves.

Just get through this,
I told myself.
 
Just
get through this, and then you can fall apart.
 

It did little to comfort me.
 
I didn’t want to get through something
just to be able to fall apart.
 
It
wasn’t quite the reward I was hoping for.

Somehow, I made it to the door of the
office building, pulled open the door and walked inside.
 
A sleek blonde receptionist greeted me,
then led me through a pair of double doors and into a private waiting area.

“Ms. Hayes will be with you in just a
moment,” she said smoothly.
 
“Would
you like a beverage while you wait?”

“No, thank you,” I said and then
instantly regretted it.
 
My mouth
had gone dry and I wished I had water.

The receptionist disappeared and I
smoothed at my sweater nervously.
 
The blinds on the oversized windows were wide open, and the morning
light was making my head pound.