Olivio stared down at her moodily. "Did you get it from the accident?"
"Yes. Did Edgar tell you?"
"He gave me the essentials."
If that were the case, then did that mean he already knew why she had come here? The thought had her quickly looking away as she fought off a blush, not realizing that this made her seem like she was gazing outside the conference room, through the interior windows that revealed the hallway, where Johnny was still standing and watching them.
Lost in her thoughts as she was, Chelsea didn't even see anything, but Olivio did, and his jaw tightened a fraction.
"It seems you've got yourself an admirer, Mrs. Cannizzaro."
Chelsea couldn't answer immediately, much less meet his gaze. First, he had called her his wife. Then this.Mrs. Cannizzaro.She had years of practice keeping her face expressionless because of Francine, but inside she was reeling, her heart breaking record after record with how fast it was pounding.
Olivio took the remote control from the side table.Enough of this.
Chelsea was startled out of her thoughts when blinds automatically rolled down in silent efficiency. In moments, their connection to the outside world was severed, and the effect was immediate: the room shrank. The city disappeared. The cycling artwork on the enormous screen continued its quiet rotation—-Monet to Vermeer to angular modern—-but everything else had been reduced to leather and glass and the two of them, and without the distraction of Toronto's skyline or the hallway beyond, there was nowhere left to look but at him.
She turned her gaze to him without thinking—-
Wife. Husband. Mrs. Cannizzaro.
The words flashed in her mind as soon as her gaze collided with his, and this time she could no longer prevent a blush from painting her cheeks pink.
Olivio gritted his teeth.She was blushing over that boy?The very thought offended something in him that went far deeper than pride, and before he realized what was happening, he had already closed the distance between them, and he was seated next to her on the couch, and his wife let out a startled sound as his knees bumped into hers.
The contact was electric. Just his knee against hers, through the fabric of his trousers and the cotton of her dress, and Chelsea's entire left side lit up like a switchboard.
The color in her cheeks deepened, but this time the sight gave him complete satisfaction because it was different now. This time he knew that blush was because of him.
For the past ten years or so, women had been actively throwing themselves at him. Heiresses at galas, models at brand events, the occasional daughter of a senator who'd been strategically seated next to him at his father's table. He had accepted some, deflected most, and been genuinely moved by none. This was the first time in a decade that the tables had turned, and he was the one doing the pursuing. Before his wife left this room, he would make sure that Johnny would no longer be a threat, and he was all she would be able to think about. He didn't understand why this mattered to him. He just knew it did, and so...
Chelsea couldn't believe it was happening all over again. The irregular breathing and even more irregular heartbeat. Worse was the strange consuming warmth building inside her body, making her feel restless and almost feverish, and it was so much more intense now than the elevator because there was no crowd, no mirrored wall, no twenty-eight floors of rising escape. Just him, close enough that she could see the exact place where his jaw met his neck, close enough to count the threads in the collar of his shirt if she'd been insane enough to try, and the scent of his aftershave was back, that quiet dark complicated thing that had undone her in the elevator, and now it was everywhere because he was everywhere, taking up space the way he took up everything—-completely, without apology, as if the air in this room had always belonged to him and he was simply reclaiming it.
The longer he gazed at her, the more surreal this whole thing seemed. She almost felt delirious, almost like this was a dream—-
She saw his gaze slowly lower to her mouth, and she found herself self-consciously wetting her lips, and—-oh!
Something ignited in his eyes as soon as she did, and her mouth went dry.
"What are you thinking right now?"
Something she could never admit to him—-
"Or should I take a guess?"
Chelsea couldn't answer. All she could do was stare back at him helplessly. His accent had noticeably thickened, and the sound of it made his words feel more intimate. Darker. Like words spoken in a room where the lights had been dimmed and no one was expected to leave.
"Because I have a feeling we're thinking the same thing."
They were?
"So what do you think, wife?" A pause. Lazy. Devastating. "Should I just kiss you?"
Her eyes went wide, her lips parting in surprise...and that was it.
One moment, her world was what it always was, what she had always known.
And then...everything changed, the moment his lips touched hers.
