His answer this time is a growl.
‘Oh, okay. Not a fan?’
He growls again, deeper this time, and is up on all four paws in a heartbeat, his attention pointed down the corridor.
I follow his stare, frowning. ‘What is it, boy?’
He starts backing away, his head dropped, his growl now bordering on a snarl. Every instinct tells me to back away with him, so I do, looking down the corridor at nothing. ‘What’s there, Winston?’
Then there’s the sound of naked feet padding on the floor, and my back straightens when I realise where they’re coming from. The curved staircase.
Becker.
I freeze, wondering why Winston is showing such aggressiveness at the impending arrival of his owner. His hackles are raised, and now his teeth are being flashed, too. Holy shit, the cute pup looks downright vicious. ‘Shhhh.’ I try to pacify him, crouching down, wondering what the hell has got into him.
I don’t have to wonder for long. The clink of stilettos on the stone steps joins the naked padding of feet. Oh, no. I stand and weigh up my options, wanting to get away before I’m faced with another episode like yesterday evening, when they fell out of his office. I scramble to swipe my card in the reader, but my damn shaking hands aren’t playing ball, and when I finally drag it through and push the doors, they don’t budge. ‘Come on,’ I whisper, swiping again. The light on the card reader remains red. Damn it! Did the bastard only order me here for eight so I’d have to endure seeing him with that woman again? What the hell, Hunt? What can he personally get out of parading her in front of me again?
‘Eleanor?’
‘Yes?’ I swing around and slap my back to the door. Becker’s naked chest wallops me in the face like a wrecking ball, and I close my eyes tightly to escape it, while talking myself down from the burning rage his nasty tactic has spiked.
‘All right?’
I keep my eyes firmly closed. ‘Yep, just going to get the Spanish tapestry file you wanted.’ I indicate blindly over my shoulder. ‘I’ll put it on your desk.’ I turn back to the door before I open my eyes, then set about trying to get my card through the reader again. ‘Damn you,’ I mutter under my breath, adrenalin increasing my shakes.
I freeze when a firm hand clasps my wrist, no doubt soaking up my trembles. The heat that radiates through my entire body and travels down to between my thighs makes my jaw clench. His hold is solid, his body closing in behind mine. I beg every god above not to let that bare chest meet my back. Please, don’t let another part of him touch me.
My breathing stutters when I feel the hot air of his breath tickle the hair around my ear, and my eyes close as I continue to pray. Then his hand squeezes mine gently. The further constriction feels like a silent message. And when he follows it up with some words – soft words – my trembles intensify.
‘Stop shaking,’ he whispers.
I’m completely befuddled by his actions and words. They were gentle. Reassuring. Very unlike Becker Hunt. I make to turn so I can see if I can read the intention in his eyes, but I only make it halfway before all hell breaks loose, and I’m snapped from my daze when Winston brings The Haven down with a relentless barking fit.
Becker releases his hold of me in an instant, and I turn the rest of the way to find my boss crouched on the floor, trying to calm a very rankled bulldog. ‘Hey, pack it in,’ Becker shouts, but he’s flat-out ignored, and Winston just carries on yelling, the gruff barks piercing. I hold my hands over my ears as Becker looks up at me, a scowl on his face. I recoil. What did I do?
I disregard my boss’s accusing look and focus on Winston, seeing him growling in the direction of the stairs, so I look . . . and I hate what I see. A woman dressed from top to toe in lace. Black lace. Sexy black lace. Tiger bird. I nearly vomit in my own mouth. I also nearly tell Winston to attack. She’s looking at my doggy friend in disgust as she edges her way down the corridor.
‘Becker, that dog is disturbed,’ she whines.
‘He’s fine,’ Becker grumbles, roughing up Winston’s head with a swipe of his hand. ‘He doesn’t like you.’
‘He doesn’t like anyone.’ The lace-clad woman looks across at me, her interest instant. ‘Oh, you must be Becker’s new skivvy.’
‘Excuse me?’ I cough.
‘Shut up, Alexa,’ Becker warns.
Alexa? Not Paula? This isn’t the woman I spoke to on the phone? How many has he got on the go? Not that I care. I don’t damn well care. Swinging towards Becker’s crouched form, I glare at him. ‘Skivvy?’