by Amelia Wilde
8
Dominic
I react without thinking when I see her name on the email.
I’ve been in the office for hours, reviewing the final touches on a number of contracts—contracts I shouldn’t even be spending my time on, but after the meeting with Chris, I’ve instituted a tighter review policy—and the emails stopped coming in a long time ago.
Until hers.
Vivienne Davis is sending me a summary of a meeting between three Wilder Enterprises executives and some potential partners for a massive deal in India, and damn, the woman is dedicated—because it comes in after 10 p.m., when nobody in their right mind is still in the office.
Except for me.
It’s a terse and formal note, with no hint of the spitfire attitude of the woman I found out on the sidewalk that day, but my mind doesn’t linger on the professional office bullshit. All I see is the time stamp, and the image of her sitting downstairs at her desk, the image of her walking alone to—
To God knows where. I don’t know where she lives, although I could always look it up in her personnel file. Is she going to get a cab, or is she going to walk to the subway?
Something rears up in my chest at the thought of her out there, alone, in the semi-darkness of the New York City night, and before I can stop myself, I’m typing up a reply, thoughtless, sending it.
The moment it’s done, I know it’s not enough. A quick question, Jesus. I couldn’t care any less about the summary at this moment.
I reach for the handset of my phone and dial in the number, hesitating over the extension. What the hell is wrong with me? I scroll to the bottom of the email with my left hand, punching in the extension as soon as it registers.
She answers on the first ring. “Vivienne Davis.” There’s the slightest hint of breathlessness in her voice, and it zings up and down my spine to hear it.
“Ms. Davis. It’s very late to be in the office. I’d like to offer you a ride home.”
I’d like to offer her more than that, but it’s the first thing that comes to mind, and I have to do something to lower the chances of her walking out of here by herself.
She hesitates a beat. “Mr. Wilder?”
“It’s me, Ms. Davis.”
“You can—” I can hear her swallow over the phone. “You can call me Vivienne.”
Heat spreads out across my chest. “Vivienne, it’s much too late to be going home by yourself.”
She laughs a little, the sound clean and pure. “I’ve lived in the city for quite a while, Mr. Wilder. I’m not afraid of the dark.”
“Indulge me.”
Her breath is soft over the phone, and I picture her with her head cocked to the side, considering. “As long as you don’t think I can’t handle a subway ride home. Even if it’s past eight o’clock.”
This is the kind of flirtatious talk that would never happen during the daytime, never happen during office hours, and it’s like a spark that jumps from the morning three weeks ago straight to now, as if it’s the very next day. She’s holding her own. She’s not giving in to me, at least not at first, and that’s a rare quality in anyone who works for me these days.
“I’m sure you could, Vivienne.” There’s no mistaking it this time—when I say her name, there’s a hitch in her breath. “But I’d like to see you safely home. Are you ready to go?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I’ll be down in the lobby in one minute.”
“I’ll see you there.”
I hang up the phone and whip my cell out of my pocket, dialing for my driver. He responds with a clipped “right there, boss,” and I know he’ll be idling in front of the building in thirty seconds flat.
It’s all I can do not to sprint to the elevator.
I haven’t seen Vivienne in three weeks, and I’m starting to look for her in every woman I see on the streets.
I shouldn’t be doing this.
I get into the elevator.
I shouldn’t be doing this under any circumstances. She’s a grown woman. She can handle getting home by herself. But more than that, she works for me. Any hint of impropriety—
I shouldn’t, but I will.
The elevator lets me off at the same time the other one lets her out into the lobby, and for an instant I see her biting her full lip, head turning, scanning the area for me. The sight of her nearly brings me to my knees. She’s wearing a black dress that hugs her hips. It has short sleeves that display her arms and give off a prim vibe while somehow remaining unbelievably sexy, and the scooped neckline that demurely covers her cleavage nearly pushes me over the edge.
I want her.
Now.
I move toward her, and she turns her head at the last moment and sees me, color rushing to her cheeks. She hasn’t forgotten that day, either.
“Vivienne.”
She tightens her grip on her purse. “Mr. Wilder.”
I grin at her, and her answering smile takes my breath away. “You can call me Dominic.”
She looks at me with wide eyes. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? You are, after all, my boss’s boss’s boss.”
“I’ve had worse ideas.” I let the sentence hang in the air and she bites her lip again, and I know, right then, that we’re tumbling over into uncharted territory.
“Like what?”
I lean in, like I’m about to whisper a secret into her ear. “Nothing we should be discussing at work.”
Vivienne flushes a deeper red. “I’m more than ready to leave.” The suggestion is there in her voice, and I want to sweep her off her feet right then.
“Me, too.” I offer her my arm, and she slips her hand in, that same heat rushing through me the instant she’s touching me. My heart pounds in my chest. This is risky. I’m the owner of the company—I can do whatever I please—but if somebody twists this the wrong way—
Then screw them.
We move toward the entrance. “What kept you here so late?”
“I was coordinating the Mumbai meeting, and I had to be on the call.”
“How did it go?”
“Fine.”
She’s trembling, though her voice never wavers. We go through the front doors, and there’s my car, waiting by the curb. I step up and open the door, and Vivienne slides into the backseat. I get in beside her and pull the door closed behind me.
“We’re not at work anymore.”
Her eyes are bright, even in the dark interior of the car. “What does that mean…Dominic?” My name in her mouth makes me want to hear her moan it with pleasure, and my cock jumps at the thought.
“We can talk about anything we want now.”
Her breasts rise and fall under her dress as she breathes. “What do you want to talk about?”
“You.” Her eyes lock on mine, and her lips part. “I’ve thought of you every day. You’ve been on my mind constantly.” She’s breathing harder now. “Can you blame me?”
Her next word is a whisper so sensual I almost lean across and crush my mouth against hers. “No.”
9
Vivienne
The air crackles between us. I want nothing more in the world than to lean across and run my fingers over Dominic’s neat stubble, feel the roughness under my fingertips, and then kiss him, finally getting to taste a man who’s been haunting my dreams for three weeks.
I want it so badly.
But all the rationalization in the world can’t work around the problem that I’m the undercover FBI agent investigating his company. Getting close to him—that I could explain. But sleeping with him could ruin me, if it ever got out, and there’s no guarantee it would stay a secret.
Up close, in the back of his car, gliding through the streets of New York City, it’s getting harder and harder to care. He smells like expensive soap and a hint of spicy cologne, and the shadows in the back seat play over his jawline like a symphony. There’s not enough air in here to get a full breath, and now that he’s dropped all the professional demeanor from the offic
e, I can hardly get a handle on the way he’s looking at me with a cold laser focus that’s burning up underneath. We’ve gone three blocks, and my panties are already damp.
No, I can’t blame him. I can’t blame him at all, because I’ve thought of him every day, too. The scrape on my knee has healed, but part of me wishes it was still bleeding because then I could ask for his help. It’s a pathetic impulse, but I want his hands on me so badly I’m willing to make any excuse.
“Did you think I forgot about you, Vivienne Davis?”
His next question goes straight to my chest, and it’s a struggle to keep my face from betraying my relief. “Of course,” I say, and my light tone almost sounds genuine. “Women probably drop doughnuts in front of you every day.”
He doesn’t follow my lead, doesn’t joke. “They don’t,” he says simply. “But that’s not why I’ve been thinking about you.”
A chill runs from the top of my head to the small of my back. Maybe I’m mistaking this entirely. Maybe he knows who I am, what I’m doing, and this is his way of telling me. “Why have you been thinking of me?”
His gaze on me is hard, piercing, like he’s looking right into my soul. “Because you captivated me. Because you didn’t get starstruck. Something about the way you spoke, the way you moved—” He shakes his head, frustrated. “I can’t get you out of my head. And your eyes—” He reaches out, brushing a stray tendril of hair away from my face. “I see your eyes in my dreams.”
The bulge protruding in his pants tells me that these aren’t dreams where we go out to dinner and walk along the boardwalk, and the heat between my legs increases. I feel like I’m falling, literally falling, into his blue eyes, and when his fingertips brush my skin, I can’t hide the full-body shiver that moves through me. “I’ve been looking for you every day.” My voice is barely above a whisper, but it’s all I can manage with his face inches from mine, his hand still playing over the side of my neck, his touch feather-light on my shoulder.
“It’s torture, isn’t it?” His voice is low, almost a growl. “I sit in meetings every day and wonder what you’re doing, down there in Executive Support.”
I suck in a breath. “That’s a lie, Dominic Wilder.”
He runs his fingers down my arm to my wrist. “What’s a lie?”
“You already know what I do all day at the office.” I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but the words are coming fast, and it’s been a long day, and I might never get another chance to say any of this to him. “You wonder what I do all night.”
His fingers close around my wrist, and my mind is flooded with the sensation of him doing the same to the other wrist, pinning my arms above my head, taking control, taking control of me. I gasp, and he leans in closer, then lifts my wrist from my lap and takes my hand in his, turning it palm upward.
“Does it have to do with these hands of yours?”
He traces my palm with one fingertip, his neatly maintained nail dragging across the sensitive skin. “What—what do you mean?” I want to tip my head back, want to close my eyes, want to let him do what he wants with me, but I stay focused on his face. This is already out of control, but I can’t let it go completely off the rails. I can’t. I can’t.
“When you’re all by yourself, alone, at night.” It’s not a question, but I hear what he’s asking between the lines.
I swallow hard. “When I’m all alone at night—” I meet his eyes, not looking away. “And I’m alone every night—I think of you.”
“Do you imagine me in my office?” There’s a low note of humor in his voice that’s lost in his touch as he circles my palm with his fingertip again.
“No.”
“Where do you imagine me?”
“In—in a bedroom.” I don’t know who I am anymore, don’t know why I’m giving him honest answers when honesty with this man could mean the end of my career. I squeeze my thighs together on the seat, willing myself to keep them closed, keep them closed, despite the urge to spread them for him, to climb onto his lap, to—
“With you?”
He leans down and presses his lips to my hand, and I can’t stop myself from gasping. “Yes. With me.”
“I’d love to be in a bedroom with you.” He lifts his head, eyes burning into mine, and I see that he’s being as honest, as raw, and I’m drowning in it, drowning in my want for him, and I can’t do it, I need to swim. To tread water. Because if this goes on for much longer, I know what it’s going to turn into, and I’m not going to be able to say no.
“I didn’t tell you my address,” I blurt out, and Dominic frowns. It’s that same frown that he gave me when he first saw me on the sidewalk, like he couldn’t quite figure out what I was doing and he didn’t like it.
“Your address?” He lowers my hand back into my lap, and some of the air floods back into the car.
“To—to give me a ride home.” I twist away from him, against the will of every cell in my body, and look out the window. “Oh, we’re—we’re actually right near my building. It’s a half a block up.”
“Pull over.” The clipped command to the driver makes my heart sink. The car glides over to the curb at the next opening, and I turn back to face Dominic.
“Is this close enough, Ms. Davis?”
He’s already pulling back, pulling away from me, his body retreating, and I hate it. Hate it.
“Yes.” I force a smile onto my face. “Thank you so much for…for the ride.”
I get out of the car and take a big gulp of the summer air. His car pulls away, disappearing into the traffic, and I stumble across the sidewalk, lean my back against the building.
I should be relieved.
Instead, I’m heartbroken.
10
Dominic
That was a disaster.
Or it was a disaster narrowly avoided.
I can’t decide which.
I don’t want to decide which.
I go back to my penthouse on the Upper East Side and pour myself a drink, then abandon it on the kitchen counter.
What’s happening between me and Vivienne Davis? One minute she’s fire, and the next she’s ice. It doesn’t make any sense.
I thunder into my bedroom. I’d love to be in a bedroom with you. What about that statement made her suddenly remember that she was there for a ride home and nothing else? And why am I so pissed about it? Most women never have a chance to get cold feet about doing anything with me, but the few who have gotten the privilege would never dream of it.
I can’t bang open the dresser drawer in my walk-in closet, because it opens automatically at my touch, which leeches a little bit of the rage out of my chest. I don’t even know why I’m so angry. I’m flirting with failure because this woman is taking all of my attention, and I have bigger things to worry about—namely, the FBI investigation trying to catch someone who’s stealing information from my company to give to the Chinese government. Or someone worse than the Chinese government. Either way, I can’t fathom who it would be, can’t fathom how this is going to play out.
I’ll keep my word to Chris. I’ll sit on this for another few weeks. But it makes me furious, this waiting game.
But the way Vivienne turned on a dime—it renders me perfectly helpless. Like when I watched my father destroy his own business by investing more of himself in vacations and hobbies. Like when my mother destroyed herself because she couldn’t bear the loss.
Screw feeling helpless.
Why did I open the dresser drawer in the first place? I peer down into it, finally registering that it’s a drawer with neatly folded workout clothes, all in a row—socks, shorts, custom tanks that are tailored to fit me and made from a cutting-edge fabric that was released last year. This is what I have to enjoy instead of Vivienne, and it all pales in comparison.
I snatch an outfit out of the drawer and strip off the clothes I wore to the office, throwing them into a hamper built into another section of the closet.
Five minutes later, I’m runnin
g on the treadmill in my exercise room, appointed with top-of-the-line equipment, staring out at the lights of Manhattan and not seeing any of them, as I crank the speed up increment by increment until my lungs are screaming and my legs are burning, and still, all I can think of is Vivienne and wondering what it was that made her run from me.
If I was willing to take the risk, why wasn’t she?
I run until I can barely draw in a breath, then go to the free weights, running through an old routine until my muscles are screaming at me to stop.
It’s still not enough to wipe her from my mind.
If anything, she’s taking up more real estate there because of what happened tonight.
Forget her.
I ignore my own order.
Forget her now.
I ignore it harder.
She’ll destroy you.
It’s bullshit, and I know it. She wants to be mine. I can see it in her eyes until the very moment I can’t see it anymore, and then I don’t know what the hell I’m seeing.
I put the weights back on the rack and head to the shower.
It’s well after eleven by the time I get out from under the steaming water, skin sensitive from the heat, and pull on clean boxers and a t-shirt. My sheets are the highest thread count available on the market, and I slide between them, relishing the smoothness against my aching limbs.
It’s a long time before I fall asleep.
At five in the morning, I give up.
I can’t stop thinking about her, and no amount of exercise is going to cure that, so I order breakfast to be sent to my room and start checking today’s news. I make it until six-thirty before I head into the office. I might as well get a head start on whatever paperwork I need to wade through. I can lose myself in contract details until…
Until the day ends, and then I’ll figure out something else to do, lest I lose my mind.