Seven twenty-three. He should go over to Emma’s apartment. Tell her that her job was safe, that they would fix this. Whatever this was. Sixty seconds later, he was looking at her personnel file on his computer, checking on her address. Humboldt Park. Not the nicest of neighborhoods, one of those areas that were threatening to blow up pricewise but still hadn’t made the next level. Starbucks had yet to move in.
Curiosity drew him to open up her résumé. He hadn’t paid it much attention when she interviewed three months ago, too concerned with ensuring he wasn’t attracted to her. After Kerry, the last thing he needed was some vacuous, pretty young thing around the office distracting him with her too-tight skirts and f*ck
-me heels. Impressed with Emma’s sober demeanor, her undoubted knowledge of the workings of an office, and the fact his dick remained steadfastly disinterested, he’d hired her on the spot. She had been perfect.
But not for long. He’d lasted about a week before rubbing one out—Ms. Strickland his fantasy fodder.
Ignoring the renewed ache in his cock, he turned his attention back to the résumé. Her previous jobs were in Philadelphia, her bachelor’s degree in business from Penn State. Her references had checked out. All fabulous on paper, but now he knew different.
Emma Strickland was not who she seemed. He intended to find out more, unlock whatever secrets she was keeping inside her sexy halter and shiny hot pants. Without removing her sexy halter and shiny hot pants, because that would be wrong. With a capital W. He checked his watch again, the worry about whether she would show niggling at the edge of his brain.
A noise in the office suite put him on alert.
He headed out, relief soaking his chest at finding Emma. But it was immediately canceled out at realizing what she was doing. The jacket he’d placed on her shoulders last night lay slung over the back of her chair. An empty paper box sat on the desk. She was scanning the drawers, no doubt looking for exit souvenirs.
“Post-its make a nice memento.”
She jumped at the sound of his voice. “Shit f*ck
!”
Slowly she turned, wide-eyed, astonishingly fresh-faced compared to six hours ago. Her dark hair, streaked with fiery tinges of auburn, cascaded over her slim shoulders, and he knew he never wanted to see it in a damn bun ever again. As he suspected, she had not come here to work. She wore exercise pants, stretchy ones that molded to her body, reinforcing and imprinting on his brain that everlasting image of the curves he’d become acquainted with last night. The ones he’d imagined, along with her smell, taste, and feel, as he jacked off in his shower this morning. Her tee read, “If your dick was as big as your mouth, I’d be interested.”
Who was this woman?
Luminous blue eyes met his in challenge. “What the hell are you doing creeping up on me like that?”
This forceful version of Emma—or should he say Chardonnay?—might take a little getting used to. “I’m fairly sure this is my office and if anyone’s creeping, it’s you.”
“I was just…” Deflated, she trailed off and turned to her desk, the reveal of emotion on her face sending his heart into a lurch.
“Time you and I had a talk, Emma.” Before she could protest, or do something dumb like resign, he walked back into his office.
…
Emma was used to getting here early to prepare for satisfying every one of Mr. Kane’s needs. His needs. Wow, that took on a whole new meaning after last night. She had stopped by the printer, picked up an empty box, and proceeded to scan her desk for personal stuff she should pack away for her ignominious exit. That’s what people in office jobs did on TV, right? Cleared the browser search history. Grabbed the plant, the goldfish, and the vodka stash in the bottom drawer. But she didn’t have any of that because she’d worked to keep her desk as circumscribed as her life at the office. No personal intrusions, no allowing the tectonic plates underlying her two disparate worlds to shift and collide.
Last night Brody had said she was his assistant, the one who kept his life in order. In keeping his life so categorized, she had done the same for herself. Thrown off self-destructive Emma and reinvented an image that worked. But it only worked if she could keep the darkness from infringing on the light. Fisting her hands on her desk, the horror of her situation burned through her.
He wasn’t supposed to be here. The plan was to bleach her presence from the office and leave a note of apology. Just seeing him this morning conjured a tsunami of competing images: her grim, unsmiling boss; the man whose face had come within kissing distance of her twitching ass; the sex god who had rocked his cock inside her greedy body and made her come in seconds flat.
Her ex-employer.