by Amelia Wilde
“Mr. Hunter,” she calls in a cold, clear voice. “Please, come in. We have several matters to discuss, it seems.”
My face burns. Mr. Hunter. There’s another layer to the laughter in his eyes. Something is lit up there, too.
He doesn’t mention it.
Instead, he heads toward Sandra, his hand extended to shake. Holds the door for her while she steps inside. Turns as he guides the door closed behind him.
He locks his eyes on mine one more time, and those blues burn into the core of me.
I might never recover.
5
Jax
This meeting is the only reason I came here, and the editor-in-chief is already sitting behind her desk. The last thing I’d do on earth is turn around and walk out. The news would break that I crumbled under Sarzó’s intimidating stare before I reached the front door.
But how can I concentrate on her middle-aged, suspiciously unlined face when my cock is about to burst out of my pants?
Holy hell, that woman was something else. I wanted her the instant she walked into the room, and everything in my body screamed for release from this suit, from this godforsaken meeting.
I can’t remember the last time a woman had that kind of effect on me.
I don’t think a woman ever has.
My mind is completely wiped except for an unrelenting need. I could step back into that lobby right now. Catherine Schaffer’s lithe frame would hardly be able to resist me.
No.
No.
I can’t get caught up like this.
None of it shows on my face, even while my mind races and kicks and screams at having to take the seat across from Sandra Sarzó. She’s top of the food chain in her industry, who the hell cares? I’d never even heard of her before today, and I certainly didn’t come here to kiss her ass. I came here to tell her that they have one issue to impress me, otherwise I’m shutting down the entire operation.
She sizes me up, her fingers steepled in front of her on the desk. “It seems you’ve bought the controlling majority of Williams-Martin, Mr. Hunter. Have you given any thought to what you might do with its properties?”
Close all of them. Including this one.
I give her half a smile, a breath that could be a laugh. “You know as well as I do that Williams-Martin is exceptionally poor at management. All of its other publications are riding on Basiqué’s coattails.”
Sarzó leans back, crossing one leg neatly over the other. “I assumed as much. But my main concern is, of course, Basiqué’s standing.” She doesn’t say out loud that this job is her life. It’s written all over her.
I’m having an out-of-body experience. Most of me is outside the doors, bending that masterpiece over her sleek, modern desk, pushing the black pencil skirt up to her waist…
Snap the hell out of it, Hunter.
There is no reason for me to be this hung up on her. I saw her for what, a minute? Two? After this I’ll have no reason to come back to the office, and she’ll become another piece of eye candy that flitted her way across my vision and back out again.
I lean forward enough to seem like I’m pressing in on Sandra’s space without actually breaking the plane of her desk. “You tell me. What is this publication’s standing?”
Sarzó straightens her back. “We’re among the three most-circulated fashion publications in the country, with well over two million paid subscribers for the print edition alone. We have another million paying for premium online content, and that number is growing as we speak.”
“And you think that makes Basiqué a worthwhile investment?”
“Do you find fault with that level of circulation?”
“Come on now, Ms. Sarzó. You know as well as I do that those numbers don’t touch the top ten.”
She lets out a short burst of laughter. “If you’re looking for a publication venue for cutesy Americana and investment strategies for retirees, you’ve purchased the wrong publishing group.”
“Have I?”
I let the question hang in the air long enough for her to become uncomfortable. I’m already jumping out of my skin. This conversation is killing me. No—not having my hands on the exquisite creature fifteen feet away is slowly, inexplicably, driving me out of my mind.
Eyes narrowed, Sarzó juts her chin out. “Let’s be clear with one another. Are you telling me that you plan to shutter Basiqué? If you are, do me a professional courtesy.”
“Not immediately.”
“When?”
I stand up as calmly as I can. “You have two issues to prove to me that my money wouldn’t be better spent on publications that will compete with the top five.”
Sarzó doesn’t miss a beat, rising to her feet. “I have no doubt we’ll exceed your expectations.”
“I’m looking forward to it. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
She raises both hands, waving me off. “Of course. A pleasure to meet with you, Mr. Hunter.”
“And you,” I say, then move toward the doors to her office at a purposeful pace. I will not be seen hurrying away as if this meeting has had any effect.
It’s not the meeting that has my heart pounding so hard I wonder if it’ll stop right now, before I can get back to the hall. This is going to be the last time I ever let myself look at this woman.
The only problem?
She’s not here.
Sarzó’s office door closes with a whisper behind me, but I’m standing in an empty office. Her computer screen is still on, casting a glow down onto the glass surface of her desk, but the petite body with the gorgeous breasts, the shining dark hair, the hazel eyes that glowed when she saw me, despite her irritation, despite the nervous jitters that shook her body when she discovered that I had arrived while she was out—
She’s not here.
My heart clenches with a disappointment so strong it embarrasses me. What the hell was I thinking?
I raise a hand to my tie in a nervous gesture that I hate and drop it back to my side like the fine silk is a hot coal.
There’s only one thing to do: find someone else to replace her. Tonight. Before I lose every scrap of my self-control to Catherine Schaffer.
6
Cate
Sandra’s office doors are open when I step into the office.
He’s gone.
My heart sinks right into my shoes, which is so stupid.
Why do I care that some arrogant rich asshole has left the building?
I don’t, I tell myself sternly, knowing even as I think it that it’s a lie.
I lasted for two minutes after the doors to Sandra’s office closed behind him before I stood up and bolted for the bathroom. Leaning against the faux-marble wall in the largest stall I struggled to catch my breath.
And—shit. I left my phone at my desk, so I can’t search for him on the Internet.
Hunter.
Hunter.
I’ve heard the name, but he has nothing to do with the fashion industry, and that’s the only thing I’ve allowed myself to think of for over a year now.
I waited until the buzzing had mellowed in my veins enough for me to walk out of the bathroom with confidence, my back straight and my chin up. My plan was to go back to my desk, and when he left the meeting with Sandra, I’d show him. I’m not some flighty bitch who gets bowled over by some jerk in a fancy business suit. I don’t need him.
I need my job.
But as I get closer to the office doors and my heart speeds up, a little voice in the back of my mind whispers: Don’t you need him? Don’t you?
No. If anything, I want him. What woman wouldn’t be attracted to someone that unbelievably sexy? Wanting isn’t the same as needing.
The voice whispers again: Oh, yes, it is.
I’m three steps away from the office when it hits me.
What if he’s the solution to Williams-Martin’s bankruptcy issue?
I brush the thought aside. If he is, I’ll know in a matter of minutes—that is, if Sa
ndra decides to throw me a bone.
She’s calling my name the moment I step through the doors, and a rush of relief washes over me. That stupid little trip to the bathroom could have cost me the relative peace of the afternoon. It’s almost enough to mask how my heart is crushed when I register the open doors.
I pick up my notepad on the way in, and before I’ve even fully approached Sandra’s desk she’s listing off things that must be accomplished before the hour is out.
“Push all the meetings from this morning to the afternoon. You can inform anyone who wants to reschedule that I’ll cut them from the issue. I want eleven or twelve different tops from Calvin Klein by three. Cut three of the models from the businesswear lineup and send me the top four.”
My furious scribbling pauses almost as soon as she finishes speaking. When she turns her attention back toward her screen, I take that as my queue to leave, but Sandra isn’t done.
“You should know that Mr. Hunter has bought a controlling share of Williams-Martin, and he’s elected not to close Basiqué—for the time being. We have two issues to prove our worth to him. You know what that means, Catherine.”
“I do.” It means that there is no room for error. No room to let up. No room to slow down.
Then Sandra pulls off her reading glasses and turns back to me, looking me straight in the eye, her expression thoughtful, as if she’s considering some deep truth about me that even I have yet to learn.
“Your work here so far has been very satisfactory.” My heart leaps in my chest. This is the first time Sandra has ever given me such high praise, and I feel an intense burst of loyalty, strong and pure. I nod, forcing myself not to smile. Sandra disapproves of giddiness. She speaks again. “As long as you continue to perform, and as long as he leaves us to our own devices, we should be successful.”
I think she might say more, but she dismisses me with a curt nod.
My heart flutters as I make my way back to my desk. There are too many emotions to sort through right now. God, I want him so much, but Sandra has made it crystal clear: he’s the adversary now.
It’s him or my work, and I know which one comes first.
I pull up my email and start firing off messages even while I place phone call after phone call to everyone I cancelled on this morning, summoning them back to Sandra’s office—yes, now, as fast as you can—and though I try to ignore the clock in the upper corner of my screen, I can’t help but watch it as the minutes tick by.
When the emails are finished, I risk it: I pull open a private browser window and type in a search. All I know is his last name, but I add keywords until…there he is, giving the camera a steely look for a promotional photo that looks to be a couple of years ago.
Three clicks later, I’m reading his biography on a Fortune list of New York City’s wealthiest residents. And he’s damn near the top.
I close the window and lean back in my seat, considering what I’ve learned.
It doesn’t make much of a difference.
I wanted him on sight, and it had nothing to do with what he could buy.
What he could do with those hands, that body…
There will be no work at the office tomorrow. I’ll finally get at least half a chance to catch my breath.
By Wednesday I’ll be back in my desk, my focus where it needs to be.
Not on the slick wetness between my legs. Not on the heat rising to my cheeks.
Not on the cocky, mysterious Mr. Hunter.
7
Jax
“Are you going to buy something or let the rest of us have a look?”
The voice that comes from near my shoulder is familiar, and it breaks me out of my thoughts.
I’ve been staring at the jewelry case, but it’s Catherine’s face I saw. The deep hazel eyes that locked onto mine and didn’t look away. The full lips that I know would feel like heaven wrapped around my cock. And an absolutely luscious ass. A woman like Catherine—independent and fiery—will love some of the things I’d like to do to that ass.
Even if she’d never admit it.
It’s Christian’s friend, Jessica. He set us up once upon a time, but she canceled at the last minute. It’s probably for the best. Things would be awkward at the Swan if she got it into her head that we were in love.
“Excuse me,” I tell her with a casual nod. “No. I’m not going to buy today.”
“Too bad,” she says, glancing down at the case. “They’ve got lots of gorgeous pieces.” Then she laughs. “But you wouldn’t need any of these. Not unless you had a girlfriend.”
I let out a hiss of a laugh. “No point in worrying your head about that.”
“I never worry,” Jessica says absently. “But I would like to look at the necklaces here, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.”
I step aside and make my way to the door. It’s a private showroom, and the security guard holds the door open for me when he sees me approaching.
Why did I come here, anyway? I’m not buying any pieces for Catherine, though I can see her with these jewels around her neck.
It was something to do.
Something to take my mind off her.
A distraction.
It’s a dangerous game. I need to up the ante.
Peter drives me to the penthouse, my mind more filled with Catherine by the second. This little venture was meant to cure that.
What a colossal failure.
I feel like a lovesick teenager, though I never remember feeling this way as a teen. Who would have made me feel this way? Not any of the girls at school.
I change into exercise clothes. What other option do I have?
I do have one option.
But I’m not going to go there yet.
Yes, my cock is throbbing from thinking about her. Yes, it would be easier if I could whisk her away somewhere private, have my way with her, and move on with my life. But that kind of thing isn’t on the schedule for today. It’s not on the schedule ever.
The machines in the gym hum. They’re ready, waiting.
I start with a run.
One mile, two, three. They disappear beneath my feet while I watch the sun travel over Manhattan. Four. Five. Six. I’m not much of a runner, but it has to work at some point. There’s be a magic number of miles that will let me focus on something else. Anything else.
I stop after eight, my legs aching.
It didn’t work.
Weights.
I move through every machine in the gym, a massive circuit that makes my shoulders burn and my abs light on fire.
Still, her face floats up into my mind. The way her ass moves underneath her skirt. The way she holds her head so high, the way she would look if…
I stand up from the leg press and stalk over to the towels.
This is ridiculous.
I thought maybe if I got physical my brain would reset. I thought I would realize that Catherine is as dispensable as any other woman. I should be over it by now.
Cleansing breaths. This should not derail my entire afternoon. This is exactly the kind of thing that leads to a disaster. Runaway emotions. Forbidden relationships. I want nothing to do with it.
I want a shower. That’s what I want, and nothing else.
The master bathroom is a cavernous space—I could have an orgy in here, if I were so inclined—and every detail has been engineered to my exact specifications, from the Raindance Royal shower heads to the shade of the marble countertops. I turn the shower on full blast and step in.
The water runs down over me, almost too hot, and I run my hands through my hair. How would it look running over Catherine’s?
That single image has my cock standing at attention.
This time, I give in, wrapping my fist around my length, bracing one hand against the wall. I set my mind free. I let it wander over every one of her curves. Those eyes. Those lips. Those legs…
Finally, finally, I get release.
My mind calms.
&nb
sp; For five minutes.
By the time I’m out of the shower, I’m already thinking of her.
She’s got to get out of my head.
Or else…
8
Cate
I dream about him. About the cut of his suit, the line of his waist, the muscles moving underneath the fabric. The scent of him.
His eyes, gray-blue and electric.
His hands on my breasts, sliding down my rib cage, pressing firmly against my hips. His mouth hot on the side of my neck, sending shivers to shake my entire body.
When I wake up at 6:00 on Tuesday morning, I’m completely disoriented from the strength of the dreams. The space between my legs is hot and slick, and between waking and sleeping I can’t resist it, don’t want to resist it, and I slide my fingers underneath the silky fabric of my pajamas, underneath the tight-fitting stretch of my panties, and over the smooth skin, fresh from a recent wax, until my fingertips make contact with the throbbing button.
I don’t have a lot of time for dating, so I’m very, very practiced at getting myself off.
Afterward, cheeks flushed in the cool of my apartment—thank god for central air—I curl around one of my pillows and squeeze my eyes shut.
Leave the phone, I tell myself. Don’t look. The office is closed today.
Every ounce of my energy goes into falling asleep, and for a while I doze, but each time I start to drift off my heart begins to pound.
I know exactly why.
The instant a thought of him crosses my mind, my mouth waters for a taste of his full lips. Then, cruelly, thinking of him makes me think of the office. Holiday’s aren’t sacred to Sandra.
It’s a little past 7:00 when I toss back the covers and throw my hair up into a loose bun, the urge to check my phone finally mollified.
To my shock, there are no messages from Sandra. I have a few emails from people at Basiqué confirming appointments for tomorrow, but that’s it.