Page 21 of The Stranger

His brow furrows.

“I don’t need you.” Or an audience Not given what I have to say to her. “Leave.”

“She is standing in your office in nothing but a bikini. After what happened on Thursday night, doesn’t it strike you as⁠—”

“As what?” I flex my jaw to release the tension.

“It doesn’t look good if you go in there alone.”

“The woman has brought this on herself. And she has a towel—a big towel. It should be me you’re concerned for, not her.”

She’s probably in there doing a happy dance that her plan has come together so well. As for her attire, her minuscule bikini, it’s nothing but a ploy. A delightful ploy, but that’s not my focus right now.

“You’re putting yourself in a precarious position.”

“Not for the first time,” I grate out as I push the door open. Red lips last night. Red bikini today. Red for danger. For warning. The woman is a red flag personified.

“Listen—” I hear from behind me, but whatever sentiment he’s about to voice is lost as I step inside, turn, then shut the door in his face.

I inhale deeply, my lungs expanding and my shoulders rising. How could I have been so stupid? I shouldn’t have been at Ardeo, and I certainly shouldn’t have kissed her. Or gone down on her. I swallow as my mouth instantly floods, though I thrust away the Pavlovian response. What’s done is done, and what’s important now is how to extricate myself from this mess and get this woman the fuck out of my house.

Before I do something really stupid. Again.

“I usually focus on my breath.” The sound of her voice startles me, the evenness of her tone. “Grounding techniques work better than mental redirection. At least, I find so.”

“What?” The fuck.

I turn to find her standing behind my behemoth of a desk. Framed by the window looking out over the garden, she looks so out of place yet completely at home in a room designed as an ode to power. Dark fabrics and leather. Midnight-colored walls, the grand Nero marble fireplace. A Picasso hangs in one alcove next to it, a Basquiat in the another, the adjacent walls ribbed with shelves, filled with priceless texts.

She looks out of place because of her age and her attire—her bikini and all that haphazard hair, the blue-and-white striped towel hastily clasped to her chest. But by her manner, one could easily assume she belongs in this room, instead of me. Chin held high, the glower she sends my way feels almost as though I’m here to plead my case.

The gall of her.

“Counting to ten is also an excellent mental interlude to manage… strong emotions.”

The woman is fucking brazen.

“I am experiencing very strong emotions.” This I say in rapid-fire French. Her brow furrows, and she doesn’t answer. “You don’t speak French.”

She answers with a shrug.

I repeat myself in English, feeling a measure of relief that she didn’t understand everything I said last night.

“Oh, I’m aware.” She jerks her chin violently in the direction of the door. “And by the way, I heard everything you said to him, to your minion. He’s got the right idea of it. This has HR nightmare written all over it. It has the potential to be one hell of a civil suit in the making.”

“Good.”

Her expression reflects surprise, whether at my answer or my response as my steps eat up the space between us. It’s not a predatory advance, or so I tell myself, but I do get a kick out of her reaction as her eyes flare when I step in front of her.

“I’m glad we’re getting straight down to it,” I purr dangerously, dropping the folder to the corner of my desk as I allow my gaze to fall over her.

Something not quite so confident flashes across her face. “Get down to it?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. And don’t waste my time.” My skin feels too tight, maybe because she’s in my space. Or maybe I’d like to be in closer contact still. The thought causes something inside me to tighten, not entirely unpleasantly. This is followed by a secondary, less agreeable twinge as I remind myself of the likely reasons she here.

“I wasn’t—” Her cheeks instantly redden, and she tucks the edge of the towel tighter at her chest. “Let’s get a couple of things straight,” she says, her voice firming. “I’m not here for a repeat of last night, and you don’t scare me.”

“That could be an error on your part,” I retort, stepping closer still, forcing her to fall back until her back is pressed against the wall. She angles her chin higher, her eyes an angry flare, but she must be more than a little worried by the way her plan is set to backfire.