"Make it tonight."
Because the woman who'd just walked out of my conference room was either exactly what she claimed—a lucky assistant with a knack for analysis—or she was something else entirely.
And in my world, "something else entirely" usually meant danger.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of meetings and calls. By six PM, the office had emptied, leaving only security and a few dedicated employees burning the midnight oil.
I'd loosened my tie and poured myself two fingers of scotch when a soft knock interrupted my review of quarterly projections.
"Come in."
Isla entered, carrying a stack of folders. I immediately noticed she'd changed clothes since the meeting. Her conservative dress had been replaced by a sleeveless silk dress in deep burgundy for the charity event tonight.
"The Calabrese report, as promised," she said, approaching my desk. "And the updated contracts for the Houston acquisition."
"Put them here." I gestured to my desk, studying her. The silk top draped elegantly, professional enough for a gala but revealing the curve of her collarbones, the smooth skin of her shoulders.
She set the folders down carefully. "Is there anything else you need before I go?"
I should have dismissed her. Should have let her walk away to her charity event. Instead, I found myself saying, "Stay a moment. Have a drink."
Surprise registered on her face. "I don't think that's appropriate."
"One drink to celebrate your first successful executive presentation." I was already reaching for another glass. "Unless you're afraid of me, Ms. Quinn?"
A flash of something—defiance?—crossed her features. "I'm not afraid of you."
"Then sit."
She hesitated, then perched on the edge of the chair across from me. I poured her a measure of scotch and slid it across the desk.
"To exceeding expectations," I said, raising my glass.
She lifted hers cautiously, taking the tiniest sip. Her nose wrinkled slightly at the burn.
"Not a scotch drinker?"
"Not usually," she admitted.
"What's your poison?"
The question seemed to catch her off guard. She stared at me for a beat too long before answering. "Mojitos."
An image flashed in my mind—a hotel bar, the scent of mint and lime, a woman's laugh. I blinked it away.
"I should go," she said suddenly, setting down the barely-touched drink. "The event starts at seven."
As she stood, I noticed her reaching awkwardly behind her back.
"Problem?" I asked.
She hesitated, embarrassment coloring her cheeks. "It's nothing. I just—" She sighed. "I need a favor. Can you help with my zipper? It's caught on the fabric."
I stood slowly, pulse ticking in my throat. This was a line. One I shouldn't cross.
"Turn around," I said, my voice lower than I intended.
She did, presenting her back to me. The zipper of her dress had indeed caught on a small piece of silk. I moved behind her, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body. My fingers brushed her bare skin as I worked the zipper free.
