"Mr. Barone—"
"Cassian," I corrected. "We're trapped in an elevator at midnight. I think we can dispense with formalities."
"Cassian." My name on her lips sent heat through my veins. "This is inappropriate."
"Undoubtedly." I traced the edge of her jaw with my finger, felt her pulse leap beneath my touch. "Tell me to stop."
She didn't. Her eyes darkened, pupils dilating as her gaze dropped to my mouth. The air between us thickened, charged with something dangerous and inevitable.
I bent my head, drawn to her like gravity. Her eyes fluttered closed, her breath warm against my lips—
The elevator jerked back to life, lights blazing overhead. We sprang apart as if burned, the moment shattered by fluorescent reality.
Isla smoothed her dress, her composure returning with each floor we ascended. By the time the doors opened to my executive suite, she was once again the professional assistant, though her cheeks remained flushed.
"The documents you needed to review?" she prompted, voice admirably steady.
I straightened my tie, mentally recalibrating. "My office. I'll show you what needs to be prepared for tomorrow's meeting."
She nodded and walked ahead of me, her heels clicking on the marble floor. I watched her move, the elegant sway of her hips, the straight line of her spine. Something about her nagged at me, like a word on the tip of my tongue, a face glimpsed in a crowd.
I'd figure it out eventually. I always did.
My office was dark save for the city lights streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I flipped on a lamp rather than the overhead lights, keeping the atmosphere intimate. Professional, but with an edge.
A test. Would she object to the dim lighting? Ask me to turn on the overheads for propriety's sake? Most women would have—the smart ones, anyway. The ones who understood that darkness and proximity were tools men like me used deliberately.
She didn't. Just moved to the desk, waiting for direction, her silhouette outlined by the city lights behind her.
Interesting.
"The Calabrese portfolio," I said, unlocking my desk drawer and removing a thick file. "I need you to familiarize yourself with everything in here by morning."
She took the file, careful not to let our fingers touch. "All of it?"
"Problem?"
"No." She met my gaze steadily. "I'll have it done."
"Good." I moved to the bar cart in the corner. "Drink?"
"No, thank you."
"Still on the clock?" I poured myself two fingers of scotch.
"Still need to drive home."
I paused with the glass halfway to my lips. "Where do you live?"
She hesitated. "Brooklyn. Sterling Place between Vanderbilt and Underhill Avenues."
"That's a long commute."
"I manage."
I sipped my scotch, studying her over the rim of the glass. "You're not what I expected, Isla Quinn."
"What did you expect?"
