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The devilish shadow to his voice is determined to steal my ability to speak.
“What?” I manage.
“I’d like to know what your skills are, Indigo.”
I pull my best defiant look. “Um… in what context, exactly?”
“All contexts,” he replies with a scowl, the word inexplicably setting off firecrackers in my panties.
“Well, let’s see… I can do a mean Kakasana,” I say about a yoga pose I know full well he won’t know. “I can lead a class in Kirtan chanting.”Another word Mr. Designer Suit won’t be able to understand.“I make the best cashew cheese you’ve ever tasted. I have a white belt in judo.” His brows rise at that one. “And I can call out bullshit when I see it. Are those enough skills for you?” I add in a mutter, “I mean, if you understood any of that…”
His elbow bends, resting on the arm of his chair, his fingers finding his chiseled jaw which he rubs slowly.
As he ponders me in the kind of silence that most people would find uncomfortable but that he seems to own without the slightest discomfort, I finally break the tension. “I’m a temp here. Why do you want to know about my skills anyway?”
“Because I want to know more about you… and about how you can be useful to me.”
I sit up straight, my breath shortening. “Useful?Charming. I’m not some piece of software, you know?”
His eyes brighten as he takes in my hair-trigger reactions before slipping to the monitor again as he reads.
“As for my clothes, I find them perfectly appropriate for my current position. The same goes for my attitude.”
The specter of a smile dances around his sinful lips, lips I can’t help but stupidly glance at, mesmerized by the way they move.
Considering I haven’t felt arousal like this since Micah and was sure I’d never feel it again, I can’t help but bathe in his presence for reasons of pure sexual therapy if nothing else.
“That’s right,” I reply. “I think my clothes are entirely appropriate.”
“Well, I don’t,” he growls.
I glance at the cream blouse tucked into a gray pencil skirt combo, my gaze heading down to my heels which are squeezing my feet.
“What’s wrong with them, exactly? What, did you expect me to turn up in a bikini so you could all get your jollies off to the new tea slave?”
His face turns to stone. “Get up.”
“What?”
“Don’t make me repeat myself, Indigo.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to look at you… and explain to you the problem I have.”
My brow creases in outrage. How dare this arrogant prick expect me to do some kind of fashion show for him where he picks me apart?
Only, dammit… I do want to stand up.
I do want him to look at me.
In fact, my body is tingling at the very thought of his predatory eyes wandering over the curves of my body, a fact made all the more potent by this fledgling arousal I thought that trauma had stolen away for good.
Curiosity plays around his eyes. I know to him this is some test—to see whether I want to stand for him, want to show off my body. I can’t after all deny that part of the reason I chose one of the tightest skirts in Carrie’s wardrobes and not the numerous pantsuits she has is because I wanted to rile him up a bit.
I guess it worked.
I swallow, contemplating which is stronger—my pride, my ego or my desire to feel his lustful eyes sliding over my body.
