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He lifted his head, withdrew his finger and, holding her gaze, very deliberately put it into his mouth. He sucked, extracting his finger slowly, and then licked his lips. His smile was utterly, wickedly shameless. ‘That doesn’t taste like a mistake to me.’
Outrage surged, instantly tempering the hot pulse of desire between her legs.
How dared he smash through her defences and mock her in a way that was so...so erotic?
She banged the heels of her hands against his chest, twisted out of his grip and yanked the robe closed. ‘I’m going to get dressed,’ she told him, holding her chin high, injecting a hard, chilly note into her voice. ‘And then I’d like to go home please.’ Her throat feeling tight all of a sudden, she secured the belt around her waist and strode towards the bedroom.
‘Emily.’
Civility overriding the urge to ignore him completely, she stopped and turned, just as a brown paper package bound with string landed at her feet.
‘Clothes,’ he supplied before she could ask. ‘So you don’t have to worry about the “walk of shame”.’
He turned away to the breakfast tray and Emily stared at his back. Then she picked up the package, blinked away the sharp sting of unexpected tears and shut herself in the bedroom.
* * *
By the time the London limo driver turned into her quiet neighbourhood street, a headache pounded in Emily’s temples and she felt as if her nerve endings had been wrapped in razor wire.
Ramon sat beside her on the back seat, silent and brooding, as he had been for most of th
e journey. They were both angry. Both upset. Which only reinforced Emily’s belief that they’d made a terrible mistake. Jeopardised their professional relationship for—what?—a bit of short-lived gratification?
She wiped a clammy palm over her thigh. The jeans she wore fit perfectly, as did the sleeveless, pale blue top and matching cardigan. Even the underwear was the right size. Every item she’d found in the neatly wrapped package had been new, the tags still attached. Emily was appreciative but she didn’t want to think too hard about whomever had bought and delivered the clothing and what they must have thought of such a task. Or maybe they hadn’t thought anything. Maybe they were used to running such errands for their boss.
The idea made her feel slightly ill.
The limo stopped. Ramon said nothing, so she quietly gathered up her things.
‘Are you staying in London?’
He turned his head and looked at her and electricity arced between them, as red-hot and incandescent as ever. Anger, it seemed, had only intensified their chemistry.
‘No. I’m returning to New York.’
‘Good.’ She prayed the word sounded more convincing to his ears than hers. ‘I think it would be wise if you stayed away for a while. Gave us both some...space. We can conduct any business by email and phone.’
A muscle flickered in his jaw. ‘I’ll come to our club in person whenever I deem fit.’
Stiffening at his arrogant tone, she opened her mouth to offer a pithy retort and found she had nothing. ‘Goodbye, Ramon,’ she said instead, ignoring the sudden dull ache beneath her breastbone, and climbed out.
He said something but Emily didn’t catch it, his words muffled by the thud of the limo door as she slammed it closed.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SIX WEEKS.
That was how long it was before Ramon finally returned to London, although it had taken considerably less time for him to conclude that his morning-after behaviour in Paris had been reprehensible.
Abominable.
He hadn’t reacted well to rejection. Yes, Emily could have handled the situation with more grace than she had, but his own behaviour had lacked any degree of decorum. He wasn’t unfamiliar with self-contempt and regret, but until that weekend those particular demons had not sat so heavily on his soul in a long time.
So he’d respected Emily’s wishes and stayed away, keeping their communication to a minimum.
But six weeks was long enough. He was done with the polite, impersonal emails. The short, stilted phone calls. She still hadn’t hired a replacement accountant and he wanted to know why. If she was keeping the position open in the hope that he would grant Turner a pardon and allow her to invite the man back, she was courting disappointment.
He walked down the carpeted corridor on the executive level of The Royce and saw Marsha sitting at her desk. At his approach, her eyes widened and she jumped up as if she’d been stuck with a cattle prod. ‘Mr de la Vega! I didn’t know we were expecting you.’
