I dashed down the hallway, not stopping at my dressing room. Elliot would be in there, awaiting me with more apologies and excuses, and I couldn't handle that.

I needed air, real and raw, reeking of the pollution of Studio City, mingled with the freshness of the surrounding trees. I needed the sound of traffic, honks blaring in my head, masking all my woes. The flavor of L.A. to swarm over me and cloak me in its warm embrace, and protect me from—

"Hey!" Zane's deep voice followed me as I broke free of the studio and took in my first gasp of air.

I didn't turn around, kept accelerating my pace until I was in the middle of the parking lot, with golf carts flying by me, their occupants studying lines or half asleep holding their phones.

"Hey, Béatrice!"

Fuck—the way he said my name caught me off guard. The accent in the right spot, even a slight roll of his tongue to pronounce the r. Almost like he spoke French, like he knew exactly how to draw out the letters to make them seductive, spicy—

But I didn't want him to be seductive and spicy. I wanted him to be physically repulsive, stinky, abhorrent. I wanted him to disgust me. And above all I wanted him to leave me the fuck alone so I'd be able to move on from the trauma he'd caused me today.

Anytime he was near, anytime I smelled his musk and sensed those rippled muscles, I got lost in him, in myself, and that wouldn't do. It couldn't.

"Béatrice," he said again, and he was on my heels now, as I waded between buildings, hoping he'd give up if I didn't stop.

Why was he so stubborn? Why did he need to catch up to me? What more did he have to say to humiliate me, to infuriate me?

"Leave me alone!" I spat, not turning around to gauge his distance from me. To hear him calling my name was tempting enough, but if I sighted him in the effort of coming after me, a snarl on his face and arms bulging at his sides, I'd lose momentum. I'd break.

"No," he said, and something wrapped around my wrist, bringing me to an abrupt halt—his hand, large and squeezing.

He spun me to him, and his lightly rose-colored cheeks, his ruffled brows, his miffed-up demeanor—they melted me.

The rage I'd felt was still there, but mixed with it was a frustrating cluster of desire, of need.

Why did his annoyance turn me on? Why did he turn me on? He was an asshole. He'd used me for my money—wasn't the first time and wouldn't be the last that someone abused my position—but it somehow stung more with him. And he'd shamed me on my show, disobeying my rules.

"No, you," I yelled as I yanked free from his grip. "I told you to leave me alone."

"I can't do that." He wiggled his fingers, stretching them out of their stiffness. He kept in my space, his presence intoxicating, making me want to punch him, kick him, anything to get him farther from me. That mix of anger and lust in my gut made me nauseous.

"Why not?" I took a step back, heat spiraling up my core, my arms, my neck. "What the fuck is your problem?"

"I'm only asking to be paid accordingly!" His lips bunched, and for a second, I thought he might spit; but he shook his head and growled instead. "I put a lot of work and care into that dish, and you embarrassed me in front of them—"

I jammed a finger to his chest. "You embarrassed me! You come on my show, and you knew the rules, dammit; why didn't you follow them? Why did you have to go and fuck all that up?" My shoulders were so tight, they began to shake. "Are you trying to destroy your career? Mine? What the fuck have I ever done to you? You don't even know me."

His eyes shifted to my lower half, zoning in on my crotch, before shooting back up to meet my infuriated gaze. "I know you better than you think."

I snickered at him. "Right, you own two of my books, and you squeezed your head between my legs and got in deep—that doesn't mean you know me, Zane. You don't know a goddamn thing about me."

His furious act was mellowing out, I could tell. His fists were no longer as clenched, and he leaned away from me, not speaking at me, but to me.

"I know enough," he said, his dark eyes fixed on mine, unmoving. They were so obscure, like a sleek, black marble, or like demonic orbs seeking to reach out and take control of my soul.

"You don't." I took another step back, and thankfully, he didn't lessen the space between us. "What possessed you to come on this show and do that? Cook something you know damn well I wouldn't eat? What was the point?"

He shrugged, all his anger turning to disinterest. He looked bored, wondering why he was there, why he was arguing with me. "You're richer than any other chef on this planet. Why does that matter to you? You shouldn't be worried about losing a few grand to me."

I scoffed, my nails curving into my palms. "You really think this is about the money? You wouldn't even follow the show's rules. If you'd made the effort, you'd have won more. If you'd masked the ratatouille, hidden all the ingredients with others—"

His upper lip curled. "I can't do that. I don't mask ingredients, because I don't let my dishes pretend to be anything other than what they are."

I narrowed my gaze on him. "You want money? You want success, Zane Rose? Then you don't bend the rules. Not until you've reached a level—like mine—where you can recover from the consequences."

"Is that some kind of threat?" His spine was ramrod straight, and the darkness in his eyes flickered, a brief light piercing through.

"I have no reason to threaten you." I raised my palms in surrender. "That was some free advice for you. From the chef who's richer than any other chef on this planet."

He released a heartless chortle. "You've got some nerve."

I resisted the urge to poke into his chest again, to tip him backwards and watch him fall, fall, fall so I could breathe without him suffocating me. Without him standing there, pulsating with loathing, but so, so damn appetizing—

"I've got nerve?" I let out a chuckle of my own. "Shall I repeat once more what you did? All the sly measures you took to get there?"

"So you're complaining about me fucking you, then?" He looked smug, the jerk. A flash of a smirk, of bright white teeth, before he returned to grimacing as if he was struggling to refrain from screaming at me.

"I'm complaining about you using me, Zane. Not telling me who you were, not being upfront with me. Imagine my confusion when the man who berated me in his restaurant comes up to me at a nightclub and begs me to do shots with him. Then dances with me in ways I wouldn't usually dance with a stranger. Then kisses me like—"

I bit my tongue. Recalling our experience together wasn't the right move, and he knew it; he began smiling when I spoke of us dancing, licking his lips as if reliving the night at the same time as I recounted it.

"Anyway, what I'm trying to say is, you seduced me, you used me for money. Because you've made it quite clear that's why you're here, yeah? You're in debt from opening your restaurant and aren't seeing green numbers yet?"

"That's none of your business," said Zane, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He'd gone from enraged chef to lustful man to shy boy in the space of five minutes. He kicked at the gravel, looking anywhere but at me.

"You made it my business by bringing your drama onto my show." I shook out my hands, not having realized I'd been holding them closed this whole time. "If you hate me, hate the way I cook...whatever. Weird grudge to hold against someone you don't know, but that's your problem. But my show? Don't you realize what it's done for local chefs who've been guests? The new episodes haven't even aired yet, and they've been receiving offers and gigs in troves. So why do this, huh?" I wanted to grab his chin, force him to grant me a gaze; but I'd taken too many steps away, and breaching the distance between us now would end badly. "Why take down my show, too?"

He removed one hand from his pocket and rubbed under his nose. "Your show won't suffer from this. If anything," he puffed out a mix of a breath and a laugh, "I'll get the shitty reputation for this episode."

I shook my head. "Then why do it? You'd stoop that low for money?"

"Exposure," he said, finally meeting my gaze. His eyes weren't as terrifying as before, but there was something in them that I couldn't decipher. His shoulders drooped forward a little. "Money and exposure. The restaurant...I mean, it's on the radar, but it's still not enough. I put my entire life's savings into it, and yeah, I fucked up on this episode, but we all know this world loves a good villain."

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Bad exposure, right. It's a tactic, but unfortunately, it won't work." He squinted at me. "We're not going to air that trash. So soon into the show's development? No way. My producers won't put that on TV."

He pulled out his other hand from his pocket, and his fists bunched again. "What do you mean? I..." He huffed, stomped, then twisted away from me. "You're saying I came on your show and made those crappy decisions for nothing?"

I winced. "You're still getting five thousand dollars, Zane. It wasn't for nothing. But we won't let you ruin our show before it's even been established. We've only aired the first episode so far, and viewers are going to have certain expectations from that. If we showed what you did...no." I swept a hand through the air. "Not happening."

Through his shirt, I saw the muscles in his spine grow taut. "That's fucked up. I needed the money, but I needed that exposure, too. You, a world-renowned chef, hosting me? I don't care that I acted like a moron, it could still open doors. And now you've slammed them all in my face."

"You want the notoriety." It wasn't a question; I condensed all he'd said and offered it back to him in a pretty, concise bow. "You wanted to be seen, yeah? To snag a spot on my show and be labeled the anti-picky eater, make a name and reputation for yourself based on your hatred for me and what I do? And you actually thought I'd play along, too."

He swirled to me, took three large steps, and next I knew his nose nearly smooshed against mine. "That's exactly what I wanted, and I was on track to get it until you decided to play by the rules. I thought someone of your caliber would bend and give me what I wanted to shut me up."

"Shut you up?" I tipped backward enough to sever the connection of our noses. The gentle graze of our skin was too much, too invasive; if I allowed it, I'd crumble and have a repeat of our one-night-stand.

I couldn't sleep with this man ever again. No matter how my body seemed completely enraptured with his, hypnotized by his every move, every muscle swelling and whispering my name. He was out to ruin me, to use me to climb the ladder to success. I'd never done that while establishing my brand; I'd done things right, working my ass off, taking the fall several times before I found my balance.

I'd never allow him to abuse the system that way.

"What do you think you're going to do, Zane Rose?" I gulped, knowing my voice hadn't come out as menacing as I'd hoped. He was still so close to me, his scent prying into me and pulling me closer, reminding me of how he tasted. "Blackmail me? Take me down? What kind of power, what kind of knowledge do you think you have over me?"

The thread of heat between us was so powerful, so painful, I had to step away, I knew; but I couldn't move, couldn't command my legs to take me far from him. Something about how much we hated each other, how much we wanted to hurt one another, made everything so foggy, so unclear. Our sentiments blurred the lines between hatred and lust. It was hard to tell if we wanted to hit one another or plunge our tongues into one another's mouths.

I'd never felt this strongly about anyone, nor had I wanted someone to strip me of my clothes so fast, but also walk away and never look at me again.

No. No, it wasn't possible. Hatred was one thing, but someone attempting to ruin me was another. I couldn't, I wouldn't mix the two.

No more business and pleasure—ever again.

"Get the fuck out of here," I whispered, barely loud enough for him to hear, as I trudged backwards.

He'd grown silent, too silent, staring at me as if he, too, waged a war in his mind. He, too, was unsure if he could cross that line. That thin, invisible stretch between anger and desire. He hesitated; both emotions were so high, so intense, and unfortunately for us, so close. They risked blending in and sending us on another night of soaring pleasure and near-violent tumbles in the sheets.

He opened his mouth to speak, at last, but it was too late; I didn't want to hear whatever he'd concocted as a response. "Get the fuck out of here," I repeated, spinning on my heel, "and don't forget your check on the way out."

I was seconds away from being far from him when he snagged my wrist again, halting me in my tracks. I knew I should have broken free and continued to storm off, but my feet planted on the ground, and a sliver of curiosity ran through me.

Why was he so insistent on touching me?

As he turned me around, I studied his face, his eyes, slightly intrigued by why he'd held me back.

"Why did you leave that morning?" He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing and drawing my gaze to it. "After everything...without saying anything? No note, no nothing?"

I ripped from his hold. "Why did I leave?" I snorted. "Why weren't you there? I woke up alone, in an apartment I didn't know, in a neighborhood I don't go to. Where were you, huh?"

His mouth opened, closed, opened again—but nothing came out. Instead, he shook his head and lowered his chin, dejected.

"Yeah, that's what I thought." I flipped around. "Seduction for the money. A one-night-stand, that was that. It was what it was, and it'll never happen again."

I took off before he could grab me again.

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