by Amelia Wilde
For a few moments, I have no fucking clue where I am. Whose bed is this? Whose arm is this, thrown protectively over my waist?
Then I take in a deep breath and catch his scent.
Jett Brandon.
He’s sleeping deeply, peacefully, his breathing even and slow, but it doesn’t matter—heat rises to my cheeks as the memory of the unbelievable sex we had floods my mind.
I suck in a breath and bite my lip. My first instinct is to press his arm down until his hand makes contact with my clit. What man could sleep through that? He’ll wake up knowing for certain that I want—
But I can’t.
The warmth in my belly is doused with ice. I still haven’t done what I came here to do.
I didn’t come here to fuck Jett Brandon—not really. I came here to install a program on his computer. To do what Charlie instructed me to do so that a few stitches is the worst thing that happens to my brother.
Now is my chance, but Jett’s arm is curled tightly around me. If I try to move it, will he stir, pull me back into bed? If I have to, I guess I’ll lie awake for the rest of the night, waiting for another opportunity to sneak away. To do what I have to do.
I swallow hard. I don’t want him to wake up and catch me in the act. Because there’s a part of me that wants this to be more than a one-night stand, more than a fling that happened because he stopped that elevator and climbed on.
Get a fucking grip, Angelica.
Jett Brandon is not the kind of man who’s going to want to get into a relationship with a woman like me. It takes five seconds of realism to see that the end game is a disaster. What, a billionaire is going to come home with me to the single-wide trailer I grew up in and meet my mother, who still lives there? Who still works at the convenience store at the intersection of two highways, fifteen miles out of town?
There’s no point in even considering it.
As for Charlie’s instructions, it’s now or never.
I take a deep, steadying breath and slide one arm under Jett’s, gently pushing it off to the side. His breathing changes when his hand hits the sheets, but I lie perfectly still as he rolls over. It can’t be more than a minute before he’s sleeping deeply again.
Now for phase two.
As carefully as possible, I inch my way to the side of the bed, then guide my legs over the side. When I stand up, my toes sink into the plush carpeting, but I don’t move.
He’s still sleeping.
Once my heart settles a little bit, I pad across the room. His bedroom door is open—he didn’t shut it when we came in and I’m the first one out of bed.
The hallway outside is illuminated with running lights along the trim that activate when I step out, and my heart pounds at the sight of it. Then I realize this is exactly what they’re meant for—to give just enough light in the middle of the night without blinding you. It takes no time for my eyes to adjust.
Of course, now there’s literally a lighted trail following me down the hall.
Going to the bathroom, I think. If he catches you, you were just trying to find the bathroom. I’m not stupid enough to think that a billionaire would have settled for a bathroom outside of his master suite, but people do strange things when they’ve woken in the middle of the night in a strange place. That will explain it.
My purse is on the floor just outside the threshold of Jett’s bedroom, right where I dropped it on the way in. I bend down and move things aside until my fingers close around the smooth plastic cover of the thumb drive. I leave the purse on the floor. It would be fucking stupid to move it now and then have him wonder what I was doing.
Especially if I want any chance with him after this.
I shove that ridiculous thought out of my mind.
Now to find his office. I’m assuming that’s where he keeps his computer.
His office turns out to be behind the third door on the left, and I let out a sigh of relief when I find it. At least it’s not all the way across the penthouse. I have no idea how huge this place is, but there’s only so far the bathroom excuse will take me if he wakes up and finds that I’m not in bed.
There’s ambient city light coming in through the window of the office, so I don’t reach for a switch.
My heart sinks.
There’s no computer.
Then I have to laugh, because of course there’s no desktop computer. Jett Brandon probably takes his essential tech everywhere he goes.
It’s an Apple laptop, the case shiny and smooth, and it’s right in the center of his desk.
I hurry over and open it. The screen illuminates immediately. He hasn’t powered it off. Thank Christ. I don’t know how to stop the chime from sounding when the computer starts up, so it’s a damn good thing this can be soundless and I’m several rooms down the hall from the bedroom.
For good measure, I hit the key on the keyboard that mutes the volume, then I slide the thumb drive into one of the USB ports.
Charlie said this wouldn’t require me to log in, and he was right. Within seconds, a status bar appears in the lower left hand corner of the screen.
10%.
20%.
50%.
70%.
The whirring of the computer’s internal fan seems ridiculously loud, and I strain to hear over it. Were those footsteps in the hall?
80%.
90%.
As soon as the indicator reaches 100% and notifies me that installation was successful, I snatch the thumb drive and shut the cover of the computer. As long as he doesn’t decide to work within the next ten minutes, he’ll never be the wiser.
I move silently back down the hall, dropping the thumb drive into my purse before pausing at the door.
Jett hasn’t moved.
The sweet warmth of relief floods my body.
Followed by a guilty lump in my throat, so sharp it takes my breath away.
Because I want more of him, too.
Chapter Ten
Jett
Friday at the office is an exercise in torture.
Angelica left early in the morning. We didn’t speak much as she gathered her things, but outside the elevator she stopped, grabbed a fistful of my shirt, and pulled me down for a kiss. It might have turned into another round in bed if she hadn’t stepped back at the last moment, putting her fingers to her lips.
“That was something else, Jett Brandon,” she said with a wicked little smile, and then climbed into the elevator without a backward glance.
I spent the next hour at the gym across the street, lifting weights and sprinting on the treadmill until my muscles burned. I tried to convince myself that I was relieved there would be no drama, not with Angelica. We hadn’t discussed next steps, and she hadn’t dropped any hints about seeing me again.
I know several women who would have dismissed the “one night” stipulation out of hand, kept pushing, pressing for more time together. Not Angelica. She seems to have a perfect understanding that a one night stand was the only offer on the table. In fact, she seemed to delight in it.
A woman after my own damn heart.
I’d hoped throwing myself into a workout would sharpen my mind for the office, but things start to come apart at the seams almost as soon as I walk in the door. It takes every ounce of my self-control to pay attention to what other people are saying in meetings. Connor has more updates on the merger, but he can tell I’m fighting to stay interested.
This is exactly the kind of distraction I need to avoid.
“Late night?” Connor says, leaning toward me a little, a conspiratorial grin on his face.
I try to keep these conversations out of the office—for obvious reasons—but I’m still coming down from the incredible high of being with Angelica.
“To say the least.”
“Who is she?”
I shoot Connor a look. “She’s nobody, Connor. It was a one-night stand.”
He leans back in his chair, linking his fingers behind his head. “You don’t look like it was
a one night stand.”
“Fine,” I say with faux irritation. “I’m thinking about seeing her again. What’s it to you?”
He shrugs, then shakes his head. “Just wondering when you’d rebound from Emerald. That’s all.”
My hand clenches involuntarily into a fist at the mention of her name. “She’s a nobody.”
Connor takes the hint and stands up. “It looks like the merger can go ahead as planned.”
“Glad to hear it.” My friend and CFO lingers at the door. Back before Emerald, I’d spend most weekends with him and other friends—and women—at the Purple Swan. Connor is paid handsomely, as are all of my high-level employees, but a membership at the Swan would still be beyond his means.
A weekend out with friends will take my mind off Angelica.
“Plans for the weekend?” I say, turning back to my computer.
“Not yet,” Connor says casually.
I look up at him and grin. “Swan tonight?”
“Damn straight,” he says, and disappears before I can change my mind.
By 2:00, I’m regretting making plans with Connor instead of texting Angelica. My mind is locked on the memory of her face, her body, and I’m beginning to think I’ll combust if I can’t see her again soon.
I want to focus on business—on getting fucking everything right—but how can I do that if my days are consumed with thoughts of a woman I’ve seen one time?
I thought a one-night stand would be optimal. Cleanse my mind of Emerald. Fuck a gorgeous woman. Instead, it’s lit me on unholy fire. The worst part is that she was happy with a single night, too.
Yet the look on her face this morning told me she enjoyed it more than just a little. She might be open to a few more meetings.
But am I?
Yes.
Denying myself life’s simple pleasures isn’t going to make the business day any easier. Perhaps in this case indulgence is the key to concentration. I could pull it off. I could see her a few more times. See how it plays out. You never know. I thought Emerald was one of a kind. Turns out she was fool’s gold. The same could happen with Angelica. As long as I keep her at arm’s length—except in bed—that outcome will have little impact.
The same won’t happen with Angelica, says the little voice in the back of my mind. She’s like nobody else on the planet.
I scoff out loud. This is pathetic .
And yet....
Fuck it.
I need to drive Emerald out of my mind forever, but more than that, I need to see Angelica again. My cock demands it, even if I know better than to allow her any more influence over me.
You are in control, I remind myself sternly. I can be done with her at any time, and I won’t be any worse for wear. If I can just stop thinking about her to the point of obsession, wondering whether our paths will ever cross again, then I’ll be able to focus on work, just how I want it to be.
I power through the next couple of meetings with the division heads and am mostly pleased with their status updates, although I need to ratchet up the pressure on a few of them to make sure Brandon, Inc. is performing at an appropriate level.
It’s nearly 4:30 when I send Angelica a message.
I don’t overthink it. I just type it out and send it, then lean back, phone in my hand, heart in my throat.
I need more of you.
I’m upping the ante from last night, admitting a little weakness, and we’re both going to know it. Need is far more powerful than want.
The moments drag by with excruciating slowness. I cancel my final meeting of the day, reschedule it for Monday morning. By then this will all be resolved.
I’m climbing into the car at 5:15 when her message comes in.
Same.
Yet no suggestions for where we should meet, or what she wants to do. The ball is still firmly in my court.
Good.
Let’s eat in. Be at my place tomorrow at 8:30.
I wouldn’t miss it for anything.
The tone of her message, with a few minor changes, could be chirpy, flirty—but I read it for what it is: completely serious.
Chapter Eleven
Angelica
Hadley is not pleased with me today.
One of my sources for the package I was putting together bailed on me on Monday when I had to reschedule for that failed trip to the police department. I just need one more quote—it’s part long-form piece on multilevel marketing schemes and part advertisement for the scheme that’s put the most money into sponsoring the site. The person I bailed on last Monday was the VP of the “second-most trustworthy” program of them all, at least according to the package, and it has taken me, along with two assistants and three photographers, the better part of two weeks to put together.
My boss stands at the corner of my desk, hand on the hip that’s jutting out to the side, with a scowl on her face.
“This needs to be live by 5:30,” she says again, as if we haven’t been going over what needs to happen for the last ten minutes. But there’s no point in arguing.
“Absolutely. I’m only waiting on a final quote, and I should have that by 3:00.”
I hope.
“This hasn’t been a good week for you, Angelica.” Her tone is clipped, cool, but there’s something in it that makes me think this could be an opening to pry out a little humanity from beneath her battle armor.
I tilt my head to the side, let the corners of my mouth turn down a little. “That’s the truth—I didn’t foresee what happened with my brother over the weekend, and—”
Hadley cuts me off. “If there’s something in your personal life that’s going to begin affecting future projects, then that’s what I need to know. I’m not interested in the details of last weekend.”
Never mind, then. No humanity to be found. Hadley is all robot.
Giving her a crisp nod, I make a show of refreshing my inbox, just in case the rep from PeakBody has confirmed any availability for this afternoon. “It’ll be live by 5:30,” I promise. If this woman doesn’t email me back, I’ll find some other quote.
“Let me know the moment it is,” Hadley replies, then turns on her heel and walks away before I have a chance to respond.
The moment she’s out of sight, I lean back in my seat and spin it around.
It does not help that Jett Brandon has been on my mind all morning. I can’t stop thinking about his hands on my skin, the weight of his body on mine, the dirty things he whispered into my ear while he fucked me.
No matter how many times I replay those moments in my mind, I still blush every time.
I rub my hands over my face and check my email again.
I have to put him out of my mind.
Jett Brandon made it crystal clear that our encounter was one and done, even if he did take me to a fancy club for dinner beforehand. And even if he was interested—by some strange twist in circumstances—there’s always the little detail that I helped at least one shady criminal, and probably a crime ring of some kind, gain access to his personal records. Eventually he’ll discover that it was me, and then—oh, Jesus—I’ll probably end up in jail.
Why haven’t I thought of that until now?
Oh, right...because I watched Charlie punch my brother so viciously that he needed four stitches. I have no doubt that he could do much worse to him.
I can’t think about that, either, because the thought of getting arrested and sent to jail for years makes cold sweat break out on my forehead.
It’s always possible he won’t find out.
That’s what I have to keep telling myself.
Charlie and his people haven’t done anything stupid enough to make headlines—at least not yet—so the best thing I can do for now is to not lose my job.
I’m still waiting for an email or a phone call from PeakBody when the text comes in. I’m so on edge that I hear the vibration from inside my purse, which is tucked in the bottom drawer of my desk. As I scramble to get it out, my heart pounds with anticipation.
Maybe I was wrong about Jett.
But it sinks down into my toes when I see that the message is from Charlie.
It’s not good.
I’m going to give you one more chance, it begins, and my stomach turns over. The program you should have installed on Brandon’s machine isn’t working. I’m sending a messenger with a new drive. Find a way to go in person and download the data yourself.
It’s like all the oxygen has been sucked out of the room.
So much for my plan to spend the next couple of weeks thoroughly forgetting Jett Brandon.
OK, I text back. I start to type that I did install the program, but then I delete it. Charlie clearly doesn’t give a shit.
And then I lie. He’s interested in me. I’ll be back at the penthouse this weekend.
The answer from Charlie comes immediately. Don’t fuck this up again.
A quiet panic tightens my shoulders, presses against my chest. How the hell am I going to convince Jett that not only do we need to see each other again, we need to go back to his penthouse? After all that “one night” business? After I played it so fucking cool?
The tension at the back of my neck doesn’t dissipate when the VP of PeakBody calls me at 2:55. I rush through making the final touches on the piece, my hands trembling on my keyboard. By the time another text comes in at 4:30, my nerves are stretched so thin that I’m on the verge of snapping, breaking down in the middle of the office.
This time, it is from Jett.
I need more of you.
When I read his words, it’s tears of relief that spring to my eyes.
Jesus, what is this? Never once in my life did I think I’d feel so happy about getting a second chance to commit a crime.
Play it cool, Angelica.
I wait as long as I possibly can to answer so it gives him the impression that I’m not hung up on him. At the same time, I can’t play hard to get. Not this time. He has to know I want it.
At 5:15, I send my response.
Same.
Let’s eat in. Be at my place tomorrow at 8:30.