Five o’clock on Tuesday comes and goes, the minutes dragging by.

There is no knock on my door.

I pull out a portfolio and flip it open to some contracts I need to sign.

It’s worthless. Inside of a minute, my eyes are sliding off the words on the page and back to the door.

Where the hell is she?

By 5:15, I’m done. Done.

Closing my portfolio with a snap that echoes in the space where Cate is supposed to be, I stand up from behind my desk and pace over to the windows, looking out at the city below. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Control.

Remaining in control is how I built my fortune from the ground up, no thanks to my worthless father. And I don’t mean the fact that I will never get an inheritance from him—I couldn’t care less about his money. He was a piss-poor example of what it meant to be a man who fulfilled his responsibilities the way he should have.

If Cate wanted to back out—and she gave me no sign of wanting to do that yesterday, after I made her come all over my hand, bent over the desk like a high-fashion sex slave—it’s not like she doesn’t know where to find me. She has two phone numbers she can reach me at.

I keep an office in this building to be near her, for God’s sake.

And she has hers.

That’s the first place I need to look.

At first it means nothing to me that there’s no one in the hallway. It is 5:00, and business hours are, by most conventions, over.

Everything makes sense when I reach the double glass doors.

The doors are locked up tight, and all the lights inside Sarzó’s office suite are off.

They’re both gone, and I’m guessing it’s not because Sarzó took the evening off and sent Cate home.

If she’s not here, I have no reason to be. The meeting is one thing. I also have no intention of hunting down the remaining staff members in the office and grilling them on how their work went today. What a colossal waste of my time, which is infinitely more valuable than any of them can possibly imagine.

On the way back to my office I dial down to Peter to have him pull the car around, and by the time I’ve disconnected the call, I’ve also abandoned the idea of going back for the portfolio. That shit can wait until later.

I’m waiting for the elevator doors to close when someone shoves an arm carrying an overstuffed briefcase between the doors, forcing them open.

“I’m sorry,” says the guy, stepping in as soon as there’s enough space between the doors. He tucks the briefcase under his arm and moves to the opposite corner as the doors slide shut.

As we begin to descend, I look at him from the corner of my eye. He can’t stand still, tapping his foot against the ground, and he has a look in his eyes that reminds me of Cate, to a lesser degree.

He’s under pressure from Sarzó. It’s not quite as intense.

This guy is no one to me. He’s not a business partner. He’s not even a potential business partner, and I don’t tend to spend my energy on getting to know people when it won’t benefit me. It might make me a complete prick but when you’re as wealthy as I am, you don’t reach out. People take advantage of you.

I don’t know what the hell comes over me. But I turn to him and extend my hand for him to shake it. “Jax Hunter.”

It’s a ridiculous breach of elevator etiquette. Elevators are like urinals. You don’t see anyone in them, and they don’t see you. You stand in your opposite corners and politely ignore one another.

He cuts his eyes toward me and his eyes widen in confusion, but then he takes my hand and gives it a solid shake. “Kirk Hawthorne. Editorial.” His forehead remains wrinkled. Clearly, he has no idea who I am. Sarzó has either kept my acquisition of the company under lock and key or Kirk’s job doesn’t change much no matter who’s underwriting Williams-Martin.

“Jax Hunter,” I repeat, wondering if he’ll realize who the hell he’s talking to. “I bought out Williams-Martin.”

Now his head whips around toward me. “You’re the one who bailed out the parent company?”

“That’s me.”

The elevator stops on the ground floor and the doors slide open. Kirk is still searching for something to say to me, and for a single instant I wonder if my life might be easier if I was a little more approachable.

No way. Don’t make me laugh.

“Well, I’m—” He fumbles for the right words, his gaze sliding toward the lobby doors. I can imagine how anxious he is to get out of here. “I’m glad you did. A lot of jobs depend on it. Nice to meet you, Mr. Hunter.” With a nod, he turns toward the exit and takes several steps away.

“You too, Kirk.” He’s reaching for the door handle when I call him back. “Hey, Kirk?”

“Yes?” he says, turning to face me. I admire him for this one thing: he doesn’t seem very fazed about meeting me.

“I went to meet with Ms. Sarzó a few minutes ago, and she was already out of the office. It doesn’t seem typical. Do you have any idea where she and her team went?” Her team. Cate. Cate is all I really care about, even if I would never admit it to Kirk.

His answer is immediate. “Los Angeles.”

What? California?

He starts to step out the door, then turns back one more time. “Cate said Sandra—Ms. Sarzó scheduled a last minute meeting with the Mulleavys.”

“When will they be back?”

“Thursday,” he says, then disappears through the doors, not looking back.

* * *

California.

All the way back to my penthouse, I try to sort out why the hell Cate didn’t call me. Send me a text. Email me the second she knew she was leaving town.

I could have stopped it somehow, could have kept her closer.

No.

I couldn’t have.

Because that would mean admitting to someone else that my need for her doesn’t stop outside the meetings.

And I refuse.

I refuse.

But my heart won’t stop pounding. I can’t wait until Thursday. Something about Cate makes it completely impossible.

I order an elaborate meal from my chef and watch shitty movies until 11:00, when I think I’ll have a better shot at getting her on the phone.

Like always, she answers on the first ring. This time, her voice is a whisper.

“Catherine Schaffer.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving, Ms. Schaffer?”

She draws in a sharp breath. “I didn’t have a chance. Sandra told me we were leaving as soon as she got to the office.”

My tone is icy. “I think you know better than that, Ms. Schaffer. There’s no reason you couldn’t have informed me that you wouldn’t be making it to our meeting.”

There’s the slightest pause, and then she speaks again, her voice a little louder. She must be somewhere she can talk at a regular volume. “About those meetings…”

“You didn’t enjoy yourself?”

“I did. I did,” she says, her voice choked. “It’s too much of a risk. I wasn’t thinking carefully when I agreed.”

This is unbelievable.

No woman has ever—ever—done this to me before.

And if any ever came close, I didn’t care.

Bow out now, says the logical part of me.

Never, screams every other part.

“Think again. We have an arrangement, Ms. Schaffer. I will see you on Thursday.”