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And jump a mile. ‘Jesus,’ I gasp, flying back in my chair when I’m confronted by a man sitting opposite me. My hand instinctively shoots to my chest and applies pressure to dull the sudden, excessive thumping of my heart. It’s going hell for leather as I stare at the man before me.
No!
Him.
Cab thief.
Scarf thief.
What the fuck?
Is he a hallucination? Lord knows, I’ve been relentlessly – and futilely – blocking the mental images of him from my mind.
‘Well, would you Adam and Eve it?’ he says quietly. His eyebrows are slightly raised behind his glasses, showing curiosity mixed with a little shock. He’s real. He’s definitely real. Where the hell did he come from? He’s just sitting there, reclined in Mr H’s captain’s chair, his left ankle resting on his right knee as he lightly brushes the index finger of his left hand back and forth across his top lip, watching me closely. I don’t know what it is about him, but he strips me of the ability to think clearly, to speak fluently, to move without looking like I’m jerking.
I make a desperate attempt to compose myself by removing my palm from my chest and coughing, shifting in my chair. On the inside, I’m in all kinds of chaos. My frantic mind is reeling. Where the fuck did he come from? Who the fuck is he?
‘What are you doing here?’ I breathe.
‘I could ask you the same question,’ he says on a disbelieving laugh. ‘There I am, minding my own business in my apartment, and I look down at my grand hall and see you standing there.’ He scowls. ‘Juggling with one of my priceless Ming vases, I might add.’
I blush bright red, cringing. But something he said finally registers in my bewildered mind. He pouts, looking adorable, all boyishly handsome. He knows what’s just slammed into my mind. ‘Your grand hall?’ I ask, coming over even hotter.
‘My grand hall,’ he repeats, confirming my fears.
Oh my days. ‘Your grand hall?’ I question again, because I can think of nothing else to say. He nods slowly. This is his business? I point over my shoulder to the door. ‘But the old man? Mr H?’
He gives me a cunning smirk. It’s the cheekiest expression, and it’s making my pulse quicken. His dimple. It’s deep and flings his conceitedness into the realms of adorable. Adorably annoying. ‘My grandfather.’
‘Oh,’ I whisper, stunned.
He leans over the desk, coming closer, keeping his eyes on me. It makes me sit back, pushing myself into the chair. ‘I think The Fates are definitely trying to tell us something.’ His words are quiet but crisp and clear, and my eyes drag across his exquisite face, absorbing every tiny detail. My skin is tingling, my tongue is thick in my mouth, and my nose has taken a hit of his unique leathery, lemony scent from his closeness.
Oh . . . fucking . . . hell.
‘I don’t believe in fate,’ I murmur, remaining motionless under his intense focus, despite getting hotter and hotter.
He draws too many unwanted reactions from me, irritation being only one in a long list of more pleasurable but forbidden effects he has on me. I start fidgeting in my chair again, glancing away.
‘Struggling to keep it together?’ he asks, encouraging my gaze back to his. Then his eyes zone in on my lips, and he falls into a bit of a trance. I watch him for a moment, fascinated by his thoughtfulness. ‘Me too,’ he eventually murmurs, flicking those lovely hazel eyes back to mine.
He’s struggling? With what?
‘Are you familiar with the Hunt Corporation?’ he asks casually.
‘Of course.’ I laugh. Everyone who knows anything about antiques knows of the prestigious firm. They’re the most famous dealers in arts and antiques in the world.
‘Well . . .’ He clears his throat, making a long, drawn-out affair of it. Then he deadpans. Totally serious. His hand comes towards me, but I pull away, wary. I’ve shaken that hand, not two hours ago. Touching it again would be monumentally stupid. ‘Pleasure to meet you,’ he says on a whisper of breath. ‘The name’s Becker Hunt.’
I go dizzy, realisation smacking me in the face.
He grins, seeing that the penny has finally dropped. ‘I’ll be your new boss . . .’ His eyes root on my lips. ‘Possibly.’Chapter 5My eyes are wide and my mouth agape. I’m not sure how long I remain silent and useless before him, but when his declaration finally worms its way past my shock, I wince, I cringe, I slap myself all over the fancy office. And I do this while Becker Hunt watches me, amusement splashed across his irritatingly handsome face. The Hunt Corporation. Mr H is Mr Hunt Senior, the old boy who isn’t seen in public any more. And Becker? Oh Jesus, Becker Hunt, the grandson. This delicious bastard before me has run the company since his grandad retired. I knew he looked familiar. I’ve seen him in magazine after magazine, with various women draped all over him. He’s notorious. A playboy. How did I – a student of art and antiques – not realise? I know why. I was too bamboozled by a potent dose of lust mixed with a few dashes of irritation. Not to mention that the photos I’ve seen of him do him no justice. No justice at all. I’m sitting in the offices of the Hunt Corporation. I should be dizzy with excitement, but I’m not. I’m mortified.
