Dante staggered back to his side of the desk, lowered himself into his chair, and immediately swiveled it around until he faced the window. She stared at the back of his head, feeling wounded and completely rejected by the unmistakably dismissive gesture. If he wanted her to leave, he’d have to wait a few moments until she got her breath and motor functions back.
Neither of them said a word as their breathing gradually returned to normal. Cleo, her body still feeling like it could go back up in flames any second, moved gingerly in her chair, wondering if she would ever be capable of leaving the room again.
“I guess you’re going to need another nondisclosure agreement.” She quickly grasped the horrific consequences of their stupidity. His shoulders tensed and he shook his head, still not turning to look at her.
“The other one has it covered. Past and future sexual encounters, if I remember the wording correctly.”
How terribly optimistic of him, she thought caustically.
“Not optimistic,” he countered, and she grimaced when she realized that she’d spoken aloud. “Realistic. We have some crazy chemistry. A bit of backsliding was inevitable.”
“No more after this, though,” she said adamantly, and she watched his shoulders rise and fall in a sigh.
“No. I didn’t mean for this to happen. It’s probably just a remnant of our . . .” He paused, unable to find the correct word.
“Affair?” she suggested.
“No. Our . . .” Another pause.
“Relationship?”
“No, will you stop trying to complete my sentences?” He sounded wholly exasperated, and he spun his chair around to glare at her. “Our thing in Tokyo.”
Cleo was too busy taking in the state of him to harangue him for his weak choice of words. How had his hair gotten so messy when she hadn’t run her fingers through it? And his tie was undone, another thing he must have done himself. His shirttails were out and . . . God, he had another impressive hard-on. The damned thing was tireless.
“I think you should transfer me to Peter Whitman’s office tomorrow. I could apprentice with his current secretary and learn the ropes from him or her.”
“What should I do in the meantime? I don’t have a replacement for you.” He sounded annoyed and put out by her suggestion.
“All I ever do is water your plant, make your coffee, and send your e-mails. Any idiot can do that.”
“But I don’t want any other idiot, I want you, until I find a more qualified person for the job.”
“Is this because of my special uh . . . skill set?”
He looked confused by her question.
“We have already established that your skill set is not suited to the job,” he reminded her.
“Not that . . .” She leaned forward and waved a hand back and forth. “This. Us.”
“There is no us.”
“Okay, sure . . . but—”
“Cleo, if you’re suggesting that I’m trying to keep you here so that I can have you around to fuck on demand, then I have to tell you, you’re mistaken.”
“Good, because that’s not even an option for you.”
He snorted scornfully and gave her a pointed and scathing once-over, not missing a single detail of her dishevelment.
“This was different,” she said defensively. “You didn’t demand anything I wasn’t willing to give.”
“I would never ask for anything you’re not willing to give, because, fortunately, I know exactly what you want.” The arrogant proclamation was so typically Dante that it took everything she had not to chuck something at him.
“I don’t think either of us tried very hard to resist temptation today,” she said, and he nodded his agreement. “But I want you to know that as of this very moment, this thing between us is over, and if I’m really not here to simply service you while it’s convenient, then prove it by allowing me to start at Mr. Whitman’s office tomorrow, sir.”
He took an excruciatingly long moment to respond. He straightened his tie and ran a hand through his hair, making it worse. He reached for his desk phone and dialed.
“Whitman,” he barked into the mouthpiece after a moment, keeping his eyes glued to hers. “Miss Knight will be starting in your office tomorrow morning. Have your current secretary show her the ropes.”
He hung up without so much as a good-bye, still holding her gaze captive.
“Happy?”
“Yes.”
“The rest of your day will be spent finding an adequate replacement for Donna, someone who will last the entire six months. Look in-house, but if that doesn’t work, call a temp agency. You do not leave this office today until you have someone to replace you tomorrow. Entender? If she’s incompetent, you’ll be answerable for that.”
She raised an eyebrow at his staccato commands.
“Yes, sir.”
She finally managed to lever herself out of the chair, their conversation having killed any residual desire she might have felt toward him. It wasn’t exactly sexy to go from the most intense and intimate lovemaking experience of her life directly back to discussions about nondisclosure agreements, office dynamics, and displays of colossal male ego. Thankfully, it seemed to have had the same effect on him. She had just reached the door when his voice stopped her.
“Miss Knight.”
She paused, her hand on the doorknob. She didn’t turn to face him, merely waited for him to say whatever was left to say.
“I would prefer someone older. Someone less like you.”
Now what the hell did that mean? Someone less like her?
“You know,” he said lamely when she turned to face him quizzically. To his credit he looked as confused as she felt.
“Nope. Don’t have a clue.” Her voice was so icy that her words practically froze as they left her lips.
“Someone with more experience. With less personality.”
“What?”
“You talk too much,” he said pointedly. “Your attitude is too familiar and too sarcastic.”
She opened her mouth to say something, and he held up a finger to stop her.
“And that was before everything that happened in Tokyo. You’re completely irreverent and have a bizarre sense of humor. I also have no wish to hear about reality television shows, pop music, manicures, Brangelina, Star Trek, or anything that’s trending on Twitter—not even secondhand through whispered telephone conversations when my assistant thinks I’m not paying attention.”
Well, he’d certainly been a lot more attentive during those half hours in the mornings than she’d given him credit for. But one thing struck her as odd.
“Star Trek?” she repeated. She loved the new movies but hardly ever publicly discussed them.
“You’re constantly talking about how sick you are of the Cardassians,” he elaborated uncomfortably. Her eyes widened and she stifled a laugh.
“Different kind of Kardashian,” she corrected. It would be hopeless to explain it to a man who clearly had no interest in pop culture—even while every model or actress he was publicly photographed with inserted him into the very scene he was so scornful of. Quite frankly, she was impressed that he even knew about the Cardassians in Star Trek, which attested to a level of geekdom that she would never have suspected of him.
“So you’re looking for the anti-me?”
“It shouldn’t be so hard to find the complete opposite of you. You are quite . . .” His brow lowered as he tried to find the correct word. “Singular.”
“Thank you,” she said, ridiculously flattered until a closer glance at his straight face told her that it hadn’t been a compliment. Her fledgling smile died, and she once again—as she often did in his presence—fought the urge to roll her eyes.
“Okay, so you’re looking for an old, boring, and competent assistant,” she itemized, and his lips thinned but he said nothing. “I’ll get on that right away, sir.”
The hot sex of earlier was all but forgotten beneath the surge of dislike and irritati
on she currently felt. She was determined to find him the best assistant she could because she would be perfectly happy never to see him again.
Dante watched her leave, waiting for the door to swing shut behind that tight little ass before throwing his head back against the chair and groaning. What the hell had he been thinking? Fucking her in the office was completely unacceptable and—for him—completely unprecedented. He had been so cool and collected when she’d walked into his office that morning, but all the excruciatingly polite sirs had started to annoy him, and then when she’d brought his coffee and mail around the desk, she’d smelled fantastic—her shampoo, soap, perfume, and her unique musk had combined into an irresistible cocktail designed to lead a man straight into temptation. Added to that, her skirt clung to her every curve, and that soft blouse draped over the barely there mounds of her breasts—he had gone from zero to rock hard in less than thirty seconds.
Impulse control had gone straight out the window, and he had bent her over his desk and had lost complete control right there in a place that should have been sacrosanct. No personal complications had ever dared intrude in here before. Now he would never again look at his desk without picturing her bent over it, legs spread, skirt up over her back and adorable little panties down around her knees. He groaned again and stared down at his ridiculously keen cock, which once again stood at attention, begging for more.
“Never going to happen again,” he said out loud. Asking her to find an assistant by the end of the day was nearly an impossible request, considering his exacting standards, but really anybody would be better than Cleo right now. He just didn’t trust his ability to stick to his resolve not to touch her again if she was working in close proximity to him. He knew this weakness was only because he hadn’t gotten her out of his system yet, and they should probably allow this thing to run its course between them—but he also knew that if he went cold turkey, it wouldn’t take long to forget about her. She wasn’t irresistible, just the flavor du jour, so to speak. She was there, he was horny, and they were good together . . . when they weren’t forced to make conversation.
But it was over now. Time to move on.
Cleo found Dante’s “old, boring, and competent” new executive assistant with time to spare that day. Mrs. Clarke was a kind middle-aged woman with a sharp intellect and frighteningly exacting standards. Cleo unashamedly lured her to the Dark Side from her nice, safe position as personal assistant to the accounts manager with the promise of a flattering introduction to the middle-aged and supposed lifelong bachelor Mr. Peter Whitman, to whom, it seemed, the widowed Mrs. Clarke had taken a shine. After that it had just been a matter of stepping back and watching Mrs. Clarke do her thing. The woman very quickly arranged a competent replacement to fill her own position for the next six months, managed her own immediate superior beautifully (the man seemed a little frightened of her, to be honest), and then all that was left was introducing her to Dante.
Dante, however, proved to be frustratingly elusive for the rest of the day. He had left the office soon after their ill-advised little liaison that morning and hadn’t returned. His phone kept going to voice mail, and he wasn’t responding to any of his messages. By the end of the day, she shrugged, leaving him a succinct memo detailing the pertinent facts regarding Mrs. Clarke’s temporary transfer from accounts to his office.
A quick glance around confirmed that she hadn’t forgotten anything, and with not even a twinge of regret, she powered down her computer, gathered up her things, and left.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Dante, my man, you’ve been scarce. I figured you were probably busy after your trip to Tokyo last month.” Dante grimaced, keeping the phone pinned to his ear and grateful that his longtime friend couldn’t see the guilt on his face. Being busy had nothing to do with the reason Dante had been scarce.
“Lucius, great to hear your voice. I’ve been thinking about you.” Not a lie. He had been thinking of the man, wondering if Cleo had let anything slip about what had happened between them. In truth, he’d been a little reluctant to call his friend because he’d feared that the other man’s reception would be cool or hostile. And that would have been . . . disappointing. He enjoyed Luc’s companionship. He didn’t have many other friends to do “guy” things with, and even though he and Luc came from completely disparate backgrounds, they’d become fast friends.
While they rarely saw each other these days, Dante still valued the friendship they’d forged in college when Dante had been new to the country. Most of the other so-called new friends he’d made in that first year had started hitting him up for loans, making him pay for drinks and food almost immediately upon discovering that his family was one of the wealthiest old families in Spain, and if not for Luc’s undemanding, steady friendship, Dante would probably have become a complete recluse.
“Yeah? Have you been thinking about that beer you owe me?” Luc asked, his voice alive with humor. Dante’s brow lowered.
“Beer?”
“Rugby match, two months ago?” Luc prompted.
“You’re actually serious? I know nothing about rugby. I never stood a chance of winning that bet, and you knew it,” Dante protested, grinning like a kid. He was just so damned relieved everything seemed normal with Luc, and if Cleo kept her end of their agreement, it would remain that way.
“Easy pickings,” Luc agreed smugly. “But you should never have taken me up on it. Look, come over for dinner tonight, and we can watch the La Liga game afterward. Barcelona versus Real Madrid. You bring the beer.”
“Blue doing the cooking?” The woman was a fantastic cook.
“Yep.”
“Then it’s a deal.” Football, food, beer, and a good friend with whom to enjoy it all. Dante couldn’t think of a better way to spend the evening.
“So, do you enjoy life in the HR department?” Blue asked Cleo, efficiently chopping up onions and peppers.
“It’s only been a month, but I’m finding it quite rewarding. I’m learning a lot.” Cleo sat at the ancient kitchen table as she watched her brother’s fiancée slice and dice her way through the dinner preparations. Blue was incredibly efficient at cooking. She was efficient at a lot of things, but Cleo—who was useless at cooking—particularly envied the other woman’s prowess in the kitchen. She had popped into the ramshackle, sprawling old Knight family home in Hout Bay after work, hoping to score an invitation to dinner. She’d been feeling a bit under the weather lately and hoped that some of Blue’s good home cooking would help her feel better.
She had timed it just right. Luc wasn’t home from work yet, and Blue had just started with the dinner preparation.
“Do you think you could build a career out of it?” Blue asked as she scraped the diced onions, peppers, and garlic into a pot. They immediately sizzled as they hit the hot oil at the bottom of the pot, filling the kitchen with a delicious aroma.
Cleo fiddled with the handle of the coffee mug in front of her while contemplating the hot chocolate swirling around inside.
“Maybe.” She shrugged. “I’m not sure. I was hoping . . .”
Blue glanced at her sharply when her voice trailed off.
“Cleo,” she said softly, ever perceptive, “it’s been three years.”
“I know, but every time I go to the dance studio and put on my pointe shoes, I feel like it’s still in there, like I can still dance the way I used to. I keep thinking if I stay fit and keep dancing, keep doing my pointe routines, just keep going, I’ll wake up one morning and just know that it’s back. But with this job . . . there’s not enough time to spend on my dancing. I have to devote my attention to either the job or dancing. I can’t do both.”
“You can dance in your spare time.”
“As a hobby, you mean?”
Blue hesitated, before nodding, and Cleo ignored the stab of pain in her chest as she thought about what her friend had said.
“That would mean giving up on the only real dream I’ve ever had,” she whispered.
“What’s for dinner?” Cleo asked, changing the subject clumsily.
“Nothing fancy, just beef stew and mashed potatoes, with bread pudding and custard for dessert.”
“Ooh, perfect for a cold, rainy day,” Cleo enthused, eyeing the buckets collecting water in the corner. The damned roof leaked like a sieve, and Luc had already set aside some money to have it fixed when the rain eventually stopped, which didn’t seem like it would be anytime soon. The old house was right on the beach and had a rustic charm that could possibly have passed for shabby chic, if things were a little less shabby and a lot more chic. Its location made it prime property, but the fact that it had been in their family for generations turned it into a burden that desperately needed fixing up. Cleo was a lot less sentimental than Luc and had urged him to sell it, since he couldn’t afford to get married with the damned thing hanging around his neck like an albatross—but her brother had a little more respect for familial obligations than Cleo did.
“Are you staying for dinner?” Blue asked, and Cleo brightened at the invitation she’d been hoping for.
“For your gorgeous beef stew and pud?”
A Ruthless Proposition Page 9