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I sound like I’m in outer space about this because I am. Because Blanca’s the one who always does this part. The talking. The schmoozing. The small talk.
Except that nothing about this man is small.
Not his presence in my senses. Not his stare across my face. Especially not his body, now pressing in again, until his significant center taps at the hottest parts of me…
Tempting me to tap in return…
No. Please…no, no, no.
I won’t be the girl who loses this client and this job because of being the Suzie McSlutty who falls for his damn charms. Not wearing a Blanca Appa power suit doesn’t deprive me of the right to own that aura.
And talk about the power of visualization. Mr. Z is backing off at last, at least physically. It’s enough. I can deal with the sensual pressure of his stare as long as his hot magnet of a body isn’t also in the tempting force field.
“Yes. Talking would probably be a good idea,” he states before clearing his throat. “Quite a bit of it, probably. About a good many things. But not here.” He sidesteps to clear the edge of my desk again. “You’ll come to my home this evening. Is seven acceptable?”
“I’ll—huh?” I spin around, hating that the strength hasn’t returned to my legs. I grip the side of the desk, hoping I still look as incensed as I feel. “Mr. Z—”
“Darian. We’ll be working together quite a bit, and I’ll be seeking your advice about a good number of things. I expect you to act as my equal, not my subordinate.”
“Wait. Wait. Listen…I speak for everyone here in saying we’re thrilled you want to work with Eppacenter. But I’m not the representative that you—”
He pivots back around. Oh shit, shit, shit, the magic of his eyes is like a gorgeousness virus across his face. The cut lines of his jaw. The determined divots in his cheeks. And the perfect, almost pouty, fullness of his lips. Why isn’t he squeezing them together when he’s so obviously ticked off?
“I’ll work with you, Quinn Lamarr, and nobody else. Now…seven o’clock tonight?”
I’m strong enough to push fully to my feet despite the continued thunderstorms in my lungs. “If you’re serious about making a PR plan happen, why don’t we just talk now? I mean, you’re right here.”
“And so are these.” He wiggles his cell phone in one hand. With the other, he lifts mine. The action wakes up my home screen, filled with one of the last pictures I took of Nina. He looks—I mean really looks—at her image, almost as if recognizing her. But that’s impossible. Nina didn’t go out a lot toward the end of her eighty-nine years. “What we need to plan must be…confidential.”
He’s professional about the statement—well, more professional than anything else we’ve discussed—so the meaning that my pussy grabs from it is a hundred percent on me. Oh, my hell. This is not going to be a doable situation. Not with me, with him…not us. Not one damn bit.
“Darian. Mr. Z,” I quickly amend. “This just can’t—I mean I can’t—”
“Quinn?”
It’s quiet but forceful. A growl but a sough. A musical blend of strength and softness that speaks to so much of me. Too much of me.
Damn it. Damn him.
“What?” I bite back.
“My manager’s name is Kaz. Tell Sylvie to expect a call from him with payment information and directions to the house. Do not use this to get there.” He hands over my phone.
“But—”
He’s already turned around and at the door. “See you tonight, Quinn Lamarr.”
“Wait!”
And now he’s halfway to the lobby. “And don’t be late. I don’t like late.”
