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“Yes, now, Miss Divine.”
He walked past her and made a fuss about which sofa to sit on in the living room, finally deciding on a winged-back chair a few feet from the window. With more drama than necessary, he plopped down onto it. Then sighing, he propped one ankle on the opposite knee, crossed his arms over his chest and gave her The Look—a combination of mild annoyance and unquestionable authority.
She eyed him cautiously, as if she were puzzled by his new inclination to review his activities. He was still furiously aware that she wore no jacket like he preferred, and he inwardly cursed her for it because frankly, she was making his mouth water.
She wore a simple black skirt that fit her womanly curves like a second skin. Of course, he knew the red undies were still beneath that skirt, and his cock responded to this knowledge with an uncomfortable stiffness. Her silky cream button-up shirt was damp on one side of her waist from the icepack she’d held to her ribs—it made Holden wonder if she had pressed the ice to her ribs, or if it had been Pimwick. Suddenly, Holden clearly remembered Pimwick saying it had been him who’d tended to her bruises with an icepack, and Holden inwardly reminded himself to fire that deranged, psychotic pervert.
Dismissing that thought ’til later, he continued his study of her person, which was much more interesting than his old butler.
Now that she’d fallen on her butt, Holden noted how her shirt was tucked into the waistband of her skirt, though not as neatly as before the fall. Still, the crinkled fabric managed to emphasize the small of her waist and the mounds of her very generous breasts. Her hair was no longer held in a bun at her nape and was now in disarray mode, with hundreds of strands of blonde hair loose and haphazardly framing her oval-shaped face. Her face was not exactly pretty. It was too strong for that. But it was sexy, very damned sexy, with lips full and thick, a sleek, elegant nose with a slight tilt at the end and high, exotic cheekbones. She was also slender and tall, and the pointy black high heels she wore made her calves look so curvy and delectable. They made him feel like a starved carnivore wanting to take a bite or two.
Holden cocked a dramatic eyebrow and made sure his gaze was dead serious as he returned his eyes to hers. He settled on using the same stare he used on every one of his employees to indicate his position of superiority and to remind them that he did not appreciate them wasting any of his valuable time. “Maybe if we can get to the top of the list by the next millennium, Miss Divine?”
“Yes, of course,” she said, moving briskly toward her briefcase and wincing when she unclasped the lock. Holden ignored the wince. In the same way, he ignored the flood of blood that rushed to his cock the second his eyes landed on an uncomfortable amount of cleavage, visible through the V of her shirt when she bent down to grab her notes. Playing the role of Frigidaire while he had such a generous display of female breasts before him and after a long, trying trip to London was about the hardest
thing he’d done today.
Lucy slowly sat down on the nearest sofa, pencil and notepad in hand, and began to talk incessantly, to which Holden absently nodded most of the time. He was awfully distracted, noticing her skirt had risen upward when she’d sat and he now had a very advantageous view of the appetizing curves of her legs. He couldn’t help but appreciate the form and texture of them, for she wore no stockings, and her skin looked porcelain and soft, her legs sleek and long—too damned long. Long enough to wrap around a man’s hips. Hell, long enough to fold over a man’s shoulders, or maybe even long enough to—
“Mr. Holden?”
“Yes?” He lifted both brows.
“Decline or accept the invitation to the Metropolitan Museum’s inaugural exhibit of Sean Scully?”
“Decline.”
She continued speaking nonsense to which he didn’t pay any attention. Was she even wearing a bra? He could swear he saw the tight, perky crest of a nipple through her shirt.
“Mr. Holden?”
“Yes?” He lifted his gaze to hers.
“The lecture at Columbia University?”
“Decline.”
Yes, he was ninety-nine percent positive she was not wearing a bra. He could almost trace the contour of an areola. She was sitting with a very erect posture that he imagined she thought was proper, but the straightness of her spine only served to thrust her breasts out to his attention.
Yes, definitely no bra. He was now one-hundred percent certain, which was all the more reason to fire her. On what grounds? Blonde hair, red panties and wearing no bra to work.
“Mr. Holden?” she sounded exasperated.
“Hmm?”
“Rockefeller Center’s—”
“Decline.”
Holden shifted in his seat, aware of the aching, rock-hard erection pressing against his pants like a tattletale. His reaction to his new assistant was not in the least bit normal, and he couldn’t help but wonder if it hadn’t been too long since he’d had sex. Maybe he should call an escort. Or maybe he should call what’s-her-name, the brunette who flirted with him at that dinner last month…
“Mr. Holden?” She was near hysterics now.
“Yes?” he asked dryly.
“Next week’s LUV benefit for human rights masquerade party?”
He considered it for several seconds. “Accept.”
