Page 7 of Her Filthy Cold Billionaire Boss

If I kept watching, I’d do something stupid. Like go down there, interrupt, and make a scene that would end up in Maribel’s next betting pool.

So I made myself turn away, cleaned the ink from my hand, and tried to focus. But every time I closed my eyes, I sawher mouth, the gap in her blouse, the curve of her neck. I saw Leo’s hand on her arm, and the urge to intervene intensified.

By the time Eden left the conservatory, I’d abandoned all pretense of work. I sat at the window, watched her stride across the lawn, shoulders squared, curls catching in the wind. She looked back, once, toward the glass dome, then up at my office window. I didn’t think she could see me, but for a second, I let myself believe she could.

I imagined calling her up. Sitting her down in front of me, explaining in precise, clinical terms what I expected from her; focus, discretion, unwavering loyalty. No fraternizing with staff. No distraction. No softness.

But when I pictured her across from me, hands folded and mouth set, all I wanted was to pull her onto my lap and see if she’d resist.

I was fucked.

There was, at least, one ironclad rule protecting both of us, the NDA. I’d written it myself, with clauses so restrictive even my own lawyers thought I was overdoing it. No entanglements, no drama, no crossing lines with anyone in my direct employ. It was clear, unbreakable, absolute.

If I touched her, I’d be breaking my own law.

But then I remembered the way she’d looked at me in the study, the flash of challenge in her eyes, the careful restraint in every answer she gave. I wondered how long it would take before one of us snapped. Before the desk, the rules, the entire illusion of order collapsed and I let myself want her, just once.

Until then, I’d watch. And I’d wait.

And I’d make damn sure no one else got there first.

Chapter Three

Eden

Maribel was waiting for me in the foyer, arms crossed and a grin already loaded, as if she’d known exactly when I’d emerge from my room and precisely how long it would take me to check my reflection in every shiny surface along the way. She had a bright yellow scarf today, an impossible pop of color in the monochrome of Wolfe Manor, and I decided instantly that I loved her for it.

“Ready for the grand tour?” she said. “I hope you brought sunscreen. The boss’s ego reflects more UV than the marble.”

“I’ll risk premature aging,” I replied, and she barked a laugh.

She led the way through a side door, out onto the east lawn. The morning was brutally crisp, air still wet with dew, and the grass looked hand-painted. Two gardeners in matching khakis were already at work, one on a riding mower, the other coaxing hedges into geometric perfection. I watched the blades glint in the sun, catching every drop of moisture and refracting it into a thousand tiny rainbows.

Maribel pointed out the formal rose garden. “He’s obsessed, don’t ask, nobody knows why.” The koi pond- “We started with twelve, there are six now. Do not name them, it’s bad luck.” And the tennis courts- “He plays alone, and yes, he always wins.” She had a running commentary for every inchof the property, her tone somewhere between mocking and maternal.

“Do you always do the onboarding tour?” I asked, keeping to the flagstone path and trying not to trip over my own feet.

“Only for the survivors,” she said. “Or when the boss forgets to be a human and lets new staff wander around like lost sheep. He’s not big on hospitality.”

“Noticed,” I said, and she gave me a sly look.

We looped the lawn, and as we approached the house again, I realized that the mansion looked even bigger from the back. Rows of windows, all glinting, none open. The exterior stone was a shade lighter than the drive, almost the color of weathered bone, and the gutters had ornate downspouts that screamed money. I stared at them a little too long and Maribel noticed.

“Custom. They cost more than my first house.” She didn’t sound impressed. Her tone was just flat.

We re-entered through a mudroom the size of my old apartment. Maribel deposited her scarf on a hook and waited for me. The house was cold, the kind of cold you only get in very old buildings, and I instantly regretted the lack of layers.

She led me into a hall paneled in honey-colored wood, with light slicing through stained glass and throwing colored bands on the floor. The contrast was complete. Outside was bright and wild. Inside was cool and cave-like, the air heavy with lemon polish and faint incense.

Maribel pointed at a portrait on the wall, a sepia-toned photo of a man in an Edwardian suit. “Gareth’s great-great-granddad. Original bastard of the line. Supposedly built the first railroad through here, but I bet he just took the credit.”

I followed her gaze. The ancestor’s eyes were as pale and piercing as Gareth’s, which was unsettling, but the rest of the face was softer, almost kindly.

“What happened to the cheekbones?” I said, and Maribel cackled.

“Heirloom genetics. Skip a few generations, come back even sharper.”

I pretended not to be interested, but my heart was beating faster than I liked. The hallway opened into a library, a huge open room with what looked to me like every book in the world. Of course, that was silly. I gazed around at the books from floor to ceiling, ladders on rails and all. There was a massive desk at one end, and it looked so much like the desk in Gareth’s office that I wondered if it had been deliberately copied. There was also a deep leather chair that looks incredibly comfortable.