“I saw their cars in the lot. Now.”
For once, the office manager gets the message.
“I’ll arrange it,” Jenkins says in a clipped tone. “Wait by the main conference room.”
The glass corridor is quiet, the sun not yet strong enough to light the city through the windows. I smooth my skirt, adjust my hair, and take a breath so deep it fills every part of me. Am I insane?I’m just a lowly paralegal and yet I’m ready to take on two powerful, dominant alpha males. I must be losing my mind.
For a second, I see myself in the reflection: standing straight, chin up, nothing left of the scared girl in the restroom stall. Just a woman who knows what she wants.
You can do it, Marnie, the voice in my head whispers.You have nothing to lose.
Nothing to lose except my sanity, that is. I stand at the door, heels planted, and wait for my name.
The conference roomis all polished surfaces and after-dark quiet. I close the door behind me, flip the blinds until the city disappears, and for a moment, the only light is the blue buzz of the table’s LED runner. Brent sits at the head, hands steepled, face carved from shadow. James leans against the credenza, arms folded, suit jacket undone, the blue of his eyes barely visible through the dim. Both men are massive, and I suck in a deep breath, remembering the feel of those two, powerful male bodies.
But they don’t stand to greet me. They just watch as I cross the carpet and grip the back of a chair. My palms are damp, but my voice is clear.
“You were right,” I say, meeting Brent’s eyes first. “I was having second thoughts about our deal. But I’m not anymore. I want this. One taboo night in exchange for all the evidence in my father’s case. And this stays between us.”
The silence that follows is so total it’s almost a sound. Brent doesn’t blink. James’s lips pull into a slow, feral smile, as he raises a brow. “No hesitation?”
I shake my head. “None. But I want your word.”
James pushes off the credenza and circles the table, deliberate and unhurried. “You’ll have everything you need, sweetheart,” he says, coming to a stop just behind my left shoulder. “You’ll get the whole record, start to finish. Even the stuff we kept off the books.”
Meanwhile, Brent leans back in the chair, arms spread along the table’s edge. “Saturday,” he demands in a hoarse voice. “My place. Penthouse. We start at seven. You show up hungry.”
I know he’s not referring to food when he says “hungry,” but as I process, James’s hand finds my wrist, his grip warm and gentle. Yet there’s an iron underneath. He bends close, so that I can smell the faint lemon of his soap, and murmurs, “You know you made us wait, right? That’s bad form. We don’t generally let other people do that to us.”
I feel a shiver, part thrill, part terror. “You’re going to punish me?” I ask, forcing my voice to sound bored, even as my pulse jackhammers.
His mouth is at my ear. “You’d better believe it.”
I yank my hand away, but it’s not much of a fight. “Not now,” I say. “We wait for the main event because we’re at the office right now.”
James’s laughter is soft, approving. Brent’s eyes never leave my face.
“Sweetheart, this is our firm,” Brent says in a silky tone, blue eyes gleaming. “And these people work for us. We say what happens, and being at the office has never stopped us before.”
“Besides, you owe us,” James adds in a throaty rasp, his gaze so dark it’s almost black now. “Women don’t make us wait. We do that to them. So we need to punish you for your bad behavior, sweetheart.”
I gasp.Punishment? Now?
But the two men merely smile, flashing even white teeth, as James locks the door to the conference room.
“Yes, now,” he hisses. “Get ready, sweet girl, because your world is about to be blown wide open.”
7
CHAPTER SEVEN – DO YOU LIKE PENS?
Marnie
The click of the lock behind us was a commitment. A finality that made the air in the conference room feel charged, thin and dangerous, like the atmosphere just before a lightning strike.
James moved first. From the inner pocket of his impeccably tailored suit jacket, he produced a pen. But it wasn't just any ballpoint. This was a heavy, gleaming cylinder of brushed stainless steel, minimalist and expensive. It caught the low light from the recessed ceiling fixtures, a sliver of silver promise. His gaze, when it met mine, was direct, unwavering. "On the table, Marnie."
It wasn't a question. It was a directive that landed low in my belly, a warm, heavy knot. Brent's hand was at the small of my back, a firm, guiding pressure. The polished surface of the mahogany conference table was cool against my palms as I leaned forward, then brought my knees up, my high heelstapping against the hard surface. Oh my god, was this really happening? Was I actually poised on Gibson Grant’s conference room table as two dominant alpha males watched me with hungry eyes? My posture was already vaguely vulnerable, my silk skirt rucked up around my thighs.
