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‘Is that all?’ I ask, my eyebrows rising in question.
His head definitely retracts a little. ‘Um . . . ye . . . yes,’ he splutters all over his words and seems to visibly try to pull himself together. ‘Actually, no, that isn’t all.’ He strides over to me with purpose, almost aggressively, but I keep my feet rooted to the spot, interested by his agitation and attempts to spike a reaction from me.
He’s towering over me quickly, but he doesn’t speak. Oh no, he chooses now, when we’re a whisper away from each other, to drink me in. Today I have on a simple little black dress and heeled pumps, and the slight shimmer in his hazel eyes tells me he likes it. So does the deep inhale he takes. And the flick of his eyes to my hair before they quickly return to my body.
He scowls and shakes himself back to reality. ‘Winston shouldn’t be on the couch,’ he snaps.
I jump back, startled. Of all the things he’s said in a childish attempt to get a reaction from me, it’s his silly observation about his dog that finally gives him what he wants. And, bloody hell, I bite. ‘You shouldn’t subject him to that.’ I swing my arm towards the door.
‘What’s that?’ he asks, his chest suddenly heaving like a gorilla.
‘Good fucking question,’ I yell in his face.
‘Oh.’ He laughs. ‘You mean Alexa?’
‘Is that its name?’
‘You know damn well what her name is.’ There’s victory in his tone. ‘Just like you could tell me exactly what she was wearing, what colour she had on her lips, and what colour her nails were.’ He stops and gives me a moment to absorb his words. True words. They bloody hurt like hell, but rather than confirming what he already knows, I hurry across the library and take a seat on the couch with Winston. ‘Admit it, princess.’ Becker walks over, his looming frame soon towering over me again. I peek up, seeing that rueful smile gracing his lovely face. I’ve given him what he wants, and, God, do I hate myself for it.
My gaze drops with him as he slowly lowers himself until he’s crouching in front of me. He places his hands on either side on my knees and leans in. ‘You. Are. Jealous.’
I breathe in some patience, so fucking annoyed with myself. But . . . ‘Seriously, Mr Hunt. Are we going to talk about jealousy?’
‘Yes, we are.’
‘Fine. Then let’s talk about you intruding on my date last night.’
‘That was business.’
I snort. ‘That was bullshit, actually.’ What is his obsession with me feeling jealous? Why be so relentless about it? I’m his employee and nothing more.
He smiles. That damn fucking smile. ‘Did you have fun?’
I should be telling him that’s none of his business, but, of course, I don’t. ‘Amazing. Brent Wilson is a gentleman.’ I smile, and his nose wrinkles a little. ‘Now, can I get on with my job?’
‘Suppose so.’ He grins when I roll my eyes. ‘I took a call in the night from the auction house in Tokyo where you sent the pearl brooch.’
I sit up straight, bringing us a bit closer together. He sees my interest, his eyes gleaming. ‘And?’ I question, adrenalin instantly racing through me.
‘And it broke records.’
I feel excitement join the adrenalin, a squeal of delight threatening. ‘Like broke records, or smashed records?’
‘Smashed to smithereens, princess. A private collector bought it. Congrats.’
In a moment of pure ecstasy, I forget myself and dive forward, throwing my arms around his shoulders. ‘That’s so great.’ I feel his palm meet the middle of my back, and the heat seems to snap me from my euphoria in a heartbeat. I shoot back, my lips straightening. ‘I’m sorry.’
Becker stares at me for a while, still crouched in front of me.
‘What?’ I ask.
He’s moves forward, coming closer. And closer. And closer. Oh, shit, what is he going to do? Kiss me? I slowly move back. He’s my boss. This could get awkward. I quickly correct myself. This has always been awkward. ‘I think you deserve a bonus,’ he whispers.
Oh God. My eyes drop to his lips. He licks them. And I return the gesture.
Closer.
His eyes descend to my mouth. And mine to his. His breath stutters. My breath stutters, too. I need to pull away, but for reasons I may never know, I don’t. Then our lips brush delicately, and I whimper. Oh, God, he tastes divine. Accept it. Accept him. But it’s wrong. So wrong.
Stop it.
Don’t stop it.
My mental debate stops there.
Woof!
Winston springs from his dreams and dives across the couch. He muscles between us, knocking the tapestry file to the floor and barking in Becker’s face.
‘Shit,’ Becker yelps. My attempt to sit up straight is hampered by the giant bulldog standing on my lap, barking like he’s just come across a burglar.
