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‘Wow,’ I breathe, my eyes roaming his otherworldly face. But something else is calling my attention right now, and it has more to do with his knowledge and expertise. This language – all things art and antiques – is one I’ve never spoken with anyone. It’s slightly more dangerous territory, if I’m honest.
I blink myself back to life. ‘You know, pearls are highly prized in Japan. You should consider selling this at an auction house there.’
‘I’m happy for you to arrange that.’ He swallows and seems to shake himself back to reality, too, and I quickly return my attention to the file in my hands.
‘Someone named Paula called,’ I blurt out, glancing at him from the corner of my eye, gauging his reaction. Nothing. ‘She asked if you’re free tomorrow.’
‘I’ll call her.’
My teeth clench. Jesus, Eleanor. ‘I noticed the Rembrandt has a hairline crack in the frame. I wondered whether you’d like me to have it looked at.’
‘Yes. I’ll send you the details of the restorer I use.’
‘Thank you.’ I continue to flick through the pages of the file until I’m almost at the back. He’s silent. Soon I’ll have no pages left to turn.
I peek out the corner of my eye again and find him gazing at me intently. He moves closer. ‘Do you like working here, princess?’
‘I love it,’ I admit. ‘The treasures. How things so ancient haven’t lost their beauty. It blows my mind.’
He smiles. It’s faint, but so bright. ‘Any particular favourites?’
That’s impossible to say. There are too many. ‘I love your desk.’
His head cocks. ‘It’s a sturdy desk.’
My eyes drop to his lips. ‘Sturdy,’ I mimic quietly. ‘Yes, it looks very sturdy.’
He’s silent for a moment, then his lips part, preparing to speak. ‘I really love hearing you talk about my treasure. I know I’m your boss and all, but it turns me on like nothing else.’
‘Are we in the realms of sexual harassment again, Mr Hunt?’ I breathe.
‘I don’t know. Do you feel harassed?’
‘No. More intimidated.’
‘By me? Why?’
‘You’re a little challenging.’
He smiles. God, please, don’t smile at me. I might dive forward and kiss you.
‘You’re quite challenging yourself, Miss Cole.’
‘I like keeping you on your toes.’
‘Oh, you’re doing a very good job of that. Among other things.’
Don’t ask. ‘Like?’ Goddamn me.
‘Like,’ he whispers, ‘disarming me constantly with your sass. It’s . . . very attractive. If you didn’t work for me, I can’t promise I wouldn’t have had you on my sturdy desk by now.’
I try not to allow my eyes to go round in shock. I try. And nosedive. What on earth am I doing? I shouldn’t be encouraging him. Bantering with him. Imagining kissing him.
I gulp and go to speak, to put him in his place politely but firmly. But a palm rests over my mouth before I can get the words out. I freeze, his flesh hot against me, and resort to taking deep inhales through my nose to load my lungs with much-needed air. He comes closer still, keeping his palm exactly where it is. I could push it away if I wanted to. But I can’t.
Our eyes lock.
My heart rate accelerates.
And I’m deathly still.
He stops when his perfect nose is only a hair’s breadth away from mine, his eyes darkening, revealing . . . something. Craving. He isn’t playing now.
Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit.
Placing his other palm over my breastbone, he narrows his eyes a little, like he could be mad with me. ‘Your heart’s rivalling mine in the pounding department.’
Oh Jesus, Lord above. I don’t speak, I don’t argue, because his hand is hindering my ability to talk. And it’s in this moment I re-evaluate my definition of the word charming. I’ve always thought someone charming was agreeable. Friendly. Charismatic. I now understand that you can add captivating, enticing, and tempting to that list, too. Becker Hunt is all of those things. His intentions might not be charming – whatever those intentions are – but his pure sex appeal, his otherworldly boyish good looks, and the god-like physique that I just know is hidden under his fine clothes, all are.
My boss is the epitome of sexy.
He knows it, and, worst of all, he knows I think it, too.
I remain still, determined not to be the one to break the connection. I’m not weak. I can match him in the self-assurance department. I’m not going to be one of the hundreds of drooling women falling at his feet. Becker Hunt has met his match. I don’t know where it comes from, maybe my love of the job I want to keep, but I find the strength I need and close the distance between us until our noses touch. I know his face so well by now, that if I could see it all, he’d have a slight crease on his forehead from his frown.
