‘“Thank you” will suffice,’ she’d told him, mentally shredding the little vignette she’d created in her head—the one in which Maxwell wrapped his arms around her and expressed his gratitude with a hug.
Stupid, stupid girl.
When had her father ever hugged her?
She had turned her back on him then and walked away and now, a day later, that small act of rejection felt petty and mean.
A knock at the office door drew her gaze away from the window. She swivelled her chair around and glanced unhappily at the papers strewn across her desk. She’d ar
rived into the office at seven a.m. and in the two hours since then had achieved precisely nothing.
‘Come in,’ she called, then wished she hadn’t, when the man responsible for her lack of productivity opened the door and strode in.
She wanted to hate Ramon de la Vega in that moment. As much as she wanted to hate the uncontrollable way her body reacted to him. Just his presence had the ability to make her feel hot and unsettled, restless, in a way she’d never experienced before.
He closed the door and she curled her hands over the arms of her chair.
She wished she didn’t know how hard and lean he was underneath his swanky designer suit. But after yesterday, when she’d stumbled in her haste to back away from him and he’d caught her, she knew there wasn’t an ounce of excess fat on his powerful frame. Every impressive inch of him was hard, masculine muscle.
She pressed her thighs together, remembering the alarming flare of heat she’d felt between her legs, the tiny thrill of illicit excitement when his mouth had descended towards hers. The avalanche of sensations had been so unexpected, so different from the revulsion Carl Skinner had evoked, she’d barely returned to her senses in time to command Ramon to stop.
She still reeled from the encounter. He’d almost kissed her and for one crazy, reckless moment she’d wanted him to. Had wanted to know how his mouth would feel against hers and if he tasted the same as he smelled...earthy, with a hint of spice and an undertone of sin...
Emily had tried hard to forget everything about that moment, but not even last night’s frenzied baking session or the double helping of dark chocolate mousse cake she’d devoured had helped. Afterwards, feeling slightly ill, she’d glared at the partly eaten cake as if it had failed her somehow. Baking treats in her kitchen and indulging her sweet tooth were her favourite forms of stress release, but last night neither had brought her comfort beyond the temporary sugar hit.
‘Good morning,’ he said, his deep voice, with its interesting mix of Spanish and American accents, as rich and decadent as the cake she’d gorged on last night.
He smiled and she ignored the way it made her stomach flutter. Reminded herself he was the kind of man who used his looks to flatter and seduce. It wouldn’t surprise her if he practised that smile in front of the mirror every morning.
She said a brisk, ‘Good morning,’ then glanced at her watch. ‘You’re half an hour early.’
Last night, before leaving, she’d suggested an introductory meeting with the department heads at nine-thirty, followed by a tour of the club and, if he was interested, some one-on-one time with each manager for an overview of their respective areas.
It had only just gone nine.
Without asking, he took a seat on the other side of her desk—the same chair Skinner had sat in two days earlier—and scanned the room. ‘You have a nice office,’ he said, ignoring her comment about the time.
‘Thank you,’ she said, because her office was nice, and she liked it. It’d been her father’s until her grandfather had died and Maxwell had taken the larger office further up the hall. After moving in, Emily had hung a piece of colourful artwork and applied a few feminine touches to the decor. The result was a professional but comfortable space that at times felt like a second home. ‘I hope it remains that way.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Nice?’
‘Mine,’ she said, and his dark brows angled into a frown.
‘Your job is secure, Emily.’
Emily wanted to believe him, but having faith in people had never been her strong suit, and the last few days had tested her capacity for trust. She straightened a sheaf of papers on her desk. ‘I’ve confirmed the meeting with the department heads for nine-thirty,’ she told him, moving the conversation along so she could hasten his departure from her office. ‘Is there something you need before then?’
He paused for a beat, his toffee-coloured eyes remaining serious, and a thread of tension pulled at Emily’s insides.
‘I need you to fire your accountant,’ he said.
She went completely still. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Jeremy Turner.’
Feeling a flicker of something close to anger, she snapped, ‘I know my accountant’s name. What I don’t know is why you’re telling me to fire him.’
‘He’s a liability.’