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He takes my breath away.
His slightly crooked nose suggests he broke it at some point. His jaw is sharp as a blade. His lips are a slash of red in his sun-roughened face. The classic suit might make him look civilized, but he’s a man imminently capable of violence. I would bet my life on that.
Still, he does nothing but nod as I near him. “Your chariot.”
Mere inches from him now, my skin feels electric. My blood sizzles. My belly flutters. “Thank you.”
As I float into the empty elevator, he settles his hand at the small of my back.
That one touch fills me with heat. I gasp and jerk my gaze over my shoulder to see a little smile playing at his lips. Of course he heard me. His grin is full of all the filthy things he’d like to do to me.
My pulse leaps again as I sleepwalk to the middle of the car and turn to face him.
“What’s your name?” he demands.
Tell him? Don’t tell him? Do I need the distraction when I have a new job? But how can I pass up an attraction this strong?
With his stare touching me, I think in slow motion. I’m still trying to decide what to do when the elevator doors begin to slide shut. Before I know it, the car whisks me up and away from him.
When I jar to a stop and the panels slide open, I have to fight an almost compulsive urge to stab the button and submerge to the basement again. In the span of five minutes, I met two men who knocked my world on its axis. My gut tells me that listening to my head was stupid and that walking away from them was the worst mistake of my life.
CHAPTER TWO
Five minutes later, I let out a shaky sigh and hustle out of the elevator at Force Financial, lunch in hand. I try not to think about the fact that I’m on the twenty-third floor again, where I’d never be able to scramble downstairs to the street if there was a massive fire. I’m also trying to forget the two hunky strangers. Maybe my nerves about this new job have messed with my mind.
Making my way down the hall, I peek into my bag of food and inhale an aromatic whiff of broccoli cheese soup. Beside the disposable container is my sandwich, pristinely wrapped. What I don’t see? A napkin. Damn it.
Vaguely, I remember Savannah pointing out a nearby break room. It takes a minute, but I wander through a sea of cubicles until I find the little corner. Thankfully, blinds cover all the windows. I can breathe.
A trio of women already inside are cloistered around the humming microwave. I don’t recognize any of them, but they’re all about my age, sharply dressed, and too engrossed in their conversation to notice me hovering in the doorway.
“Are you serious?” says a brunette.
“Yes. I’m telling you I’ve seen it with my own two eyes,” insists her friend in a blue dress. “Marcus Hunt and Josh Hennessey have shared a woman.”
I freeze.
Wait. She’s insisting my two corporate chaperones have slept with the same female? At the same time?
The friend crosses her arms over her chest. “No way.”
“Seriously. A couple of years ago, I saw them at a bar, both macking on the same girl.”
“That doesn’t mean they did her together,” the redhead points out.
The brunette thrusts her hands on her hips. “They were all over her. I watched.Everyonedid. And after a few drinks, the three of them all left, arm-in-arm-in-arm. I don’t think they went to play a rousing game of Parcheesi.”
“That happened two years ago. How do you even know it was them?” Blue Dress asks.
“You don’t forget something like that. Besides”—the brunette whips out her phone—“I have proof. I knew they looked familiar when I met them, but I couldn’t figure out why. Last night, I realized where I’d seen them. I went back through the pictures I took that night of my sister’s birthday party and…look.”
When she thrusts the screen in their faces, their jaws both drop.
“Holy shit,” mutters Blue Dress.
“It’s them!” the redhead admits. “Lucky girl.”
“Isn’t she?” the brunette fans herself. “I’d kill to be her. They’re hot.”
