Saffron had no doubt that it would be a formidable battle.
She picked up the paper, folded it in two and rose.
With a cursory knock, she entered the lion’s den. Just in time to hear the exclusive phone reserved for super-VIP clients ring.
She froze in the doorway, her breathing nosediving as her gaze landed on the man reaching for the silver phone.
Joao Oliviera.
Her boss.
The richest man in the world with looks far outmatching that awe-inspiring title.
Despite the innumerable times she’d entered his domain, Saffron had never quite mastered the awe that possessed her in his presence. She’d just learned to disguise it to the point where she could appear almost dismissive of the endless layers of the powerful, magnetic aura he exuded, the breath-stealing vitality of his six-foot-four frame, his innate ability to strike the most influential leaders dumb with a few well-placed words.
And the feverish electricity of his touch.
No amount of training or self-denial could disguise the fact that Joao Oliviera, with his obscene wealth and good looks, was Midas, Croesus and Ares rolled into one sublime package.
Thick dark brown hair, longer than conventionally acceptable and tipped with the faintest gold, gleamed in the May sunlight slanting through the glass window behind him.
Chiselled cheekbones drew immediate, captivating attention to the olive vibrancy of his face, the uncompromising line of an upper lip neatly counterbalanced by the sinful, sensual curve of his lower lip, and the rugged outline of his faintly shadowed jaw that no amount of shaving could completely smooth.
Startling whisky-gold eyes framed by long, spiked eyelashes completed the magnificent picture.
Those eyes flicked up at her entrance, studied her for a piercing second before he beckoned her with long, elegant fingers. As was his habit, he’d shed his jacket shortly after his day began, leaving the pristine white shirt and Italian-made silk vest that emphasised his racehorse-lean physique on full display.
It was early, barely eight o’clock on a Monday morning, so he hadn’t got around to undoing his cuffs and folding back his shirtsleeves to reveal his brawny forearms. In the giant scheme of breathless hellishness, she took that as a blessing in disguise.
‘Lavinia, I’ve been waiting for your call,’ he drawled into the phone.
And just like that, Saffron was lashed by another whip of her most sinful craving. Over the years she’d battled to suppress her base reactions to almost everything about Joao—save for that one searing night in Morocco. His impressive mental dexterity, his jaw-dropping physique, his superhuman energy, the breathtaking ruthlessness wrapped around a core of unwavering integrity. But the one thing she’d never conquered was her reaction to the deep, intensely sexy, accented voice.
It shot arrows of flaming lust into her during her waking hours, and, with alarming frequency lately, invaded her dreams just as shamelessly. It’d reached the point where she almost dreaded walking into his office.
With any luck, she wouldn’t have to suffer it for much longer.
Saffron shut the door behind her and tuned into the conversation. Regardless of her primary reason for coming into Joao’s office, she had work to do. This morning—and, she suspected, countless more to come—that work involved Lavinia Archer.
At seventy-four, the head of the renowned Archer Group, an empire that comprised Archer Hotels, Archer Brewery, Archer Cruise Liners, Archer Airlines and several more offshoots, had been in control for over three decades.
When rumours had surfaced that Lavinia intended to sell her company to one buyer before her seventy-fifth birthday, Saffron had known it would be catnip to her boss. She’d been proved right when Joao had immediately set out to add the entire Archer empire, valued at thirty-one billion dollars, into his already staggering portfolio.
For the last three months, he’d woven an intricate web around Lavinia Archer, one involving a game of mental chess and charm that the older woman, despite courting several buyers, hadn’t been able to resist participating in.
‘I know you take pleasure in making me wait, Lavinia,’ Joao continued, the timbre of his voice smooth, dark and potent like the special blend of coffee his handpicked aficionados cultivated for him exclusi
vely in his native Brazil. Every word oozed effortless charisma as his dark golden gaze tracked Saffron across his office. ‘I hope when the time comes, you’ll let me make the climax worth your while.’
Saffron stumbled, briskly caught herself on the edge of the sectional sofa that graced the office, and dragged her gaze from his coolly mocking one before she compounded her rare clumsiness by blushing.
Sultry laughter flowed from the phone. Saffron curbed the irrational jealousy that welled inside her and attempted to maintain her composure.
Even though she’d given him four years of her life, when it came right down to it, she had no rights where Joao was concerned. He didn’t care about her beyond her excellent organisational skills.
Not once had he asked her what her interests were outside the office—not that she had much time to pursue any of them. Her last two birthdays had passed her by because she’d been so engrossed in making Joao Oliviera’s life problem-free that she’d missed them.
And the fact that there’d been no one else to remind her—no family, friends, nor even acquaintances—and that her boss hadn’t known to treat those days differently from any other work-hard-and-then-even-harder days, had been just one of the many things that had bruised her deep inside when she’d finally girded her loins and taken stock of her life.