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With the sense she was trying to outrun a freight train, she tidied her desk and exited the executive suite as quickly as possible.
“Night, Bronte.”
The receptionists were still at the semi-circular desk that marked the entrance to the executive offices. She lifted a hand in a silent wave and kept walking; she moved as though a wolf was on her trail. She moved as though her life depended on her escape, when it wasn’t her life so much, she suspected, as her heart.
He hadn’t intentionally waited until after seven. It wasn’t like he was waiting until the other admin staff would have left, and Bronte would likely still be at her desk. It wasn’t like he had some sinister plan to catch her on her own. Maybe when it was just the two of them, the rules wouldn’t apply with quite the same rigidity?
He pulled his door inwards, turning right to head to her desk without giving himself a chance to second guess his intentions, only to find her office in total darkness.
He paused at the doorframe, refusing to acknowledge the bitter wave of disappointment that engulfed him. He flicked the light on, stepping into her space, inhaling her sweet scent, desire kicking him in the gut at the memories her fragrance evoked.
He moved towards her desk, his fingers tracing the leather back of her chair before dropping to the melamine surface. He closed his eyes, aware that this was a sign of weakness – a sign he would manage better – and then stepped back.
On the brink of leaving, his attention was caught by some papers in a tray on her desk. He reached for them, a mocking smile on his lips when he saw the short note she’d left.
Coward.
Yes, she was a coward, but at least she’d had the good sense to stay away.
He was on his phone when she arrived the next morning. She couldn’t avoid the sound of his voice. It reached her before she’d had a chance to inure herself to his charm, before she’d had a chance to remind herself of all the reasons she needed to box their weekend tryst away, mentally, and never think of it again.
His voice rolled through her though, making her think of far too much good – memories that warmed her and made her ache to go back in time, a physical ache that took hold of her and had her stopping walking for a moment, her steps getting tangled, at the sheer strength of her desire.
She drew in a deep breath, counted to ten, then quietly closed his door to block the noise.
It was obvious that she was avoiding him. It wasn’t as though he’d ever sought her out on his previous trips to London, and yet he’d seen her often. She was busy and active, walking files to various directors, checking reports, coming into his office to make sure he had what he needed, querying appointments with him, anything he needed – before he could ask her for it.
Now, he didn’t see her. She stayed in her office, so on the few occasions he ventured out for meetings or to speak to his colleagues, her door was shut. Once, he caught a glimps
e of her through the glass panel. She was standing, staring at the whiteboard on the back wall of her office, a frown on her face. He could hardly stop walking long enough to see what she was looking at. Besides, he wasn’t interested in the white board. Her hair had been pulled up in a tight bun, her clothes plain and loose. None of that mattered. He saw her as she’d been on the weekend. Hell, he saw her as she’d been in that bridesmaid dress, all silk draping over her stunning curves, and he wanted to push the door in and take her against the damned whiteboard.
He didn’t. He kept walking, blotting her from his mind for the rest of the day.
She’d avoided him for two days, and that was sheer good luck, but now, her luck had run out.
“I can’t find it anywhere,” Emily Watkins insisted, her face pale, her eyes showing nervousness that a week ago Bronte might have found amusing. All the receptionists and less senior secretaries were terrified of the Montebellos, as though they held some unique, terrifying power just because they were richer than Croesus and hotter than hades.
But now?
Now that she’d experienced Luca’s unique brand of charm, she had a bundle of nerves all her own.
“All the personal files are kept on the K drive.”
“I looked there.”
Bronte bit back a sharp retort. This was the sort of thing she routinely had to trouble shoot. It shouldn’t make any kind of difference that she’d slept with Luca. They were both professionals and this was what they’d agreed.
“I’m sorry,” Emily said quietly and Bronte had the feeling the other woman might be about to cry. It was that alone which had her galvanising into action.
“Don’t be, it’s not a problem. I’ll sort it out.”
“Thank you.” Emily put her fingers on Bronte’s forearm as she passed. Bronte attempted to smile but was sure it came out as a grimace instead.
She hesitated at the door for a brief moment, before squaring her shoulders and knocking once. She didn’t wait for an invitation – that was her usual modus operandi and there was no reason to change it now. But when the door pushed inward, she couldn’t help but seek him out, her eyes quickly homing in on where he sat at the large boardroom table in front of the window.
Her feet stopped working. Her legs stayed glued to the spot. The air was too thick to wade through. The ground was tipping, or was it rushing up towards her? She couldn’t tell. Only nothing made sense. She stared at him and her pulse went into overdrive, a fine bead of perspiration forming between her breasts. She was drowning; she couldn’t breathe.
He wasn’t alone. Fiero sat beside him, the table covered in papers.
