Instead, he stepped back, professional distance reasserting itself.
“I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow.” His voice was carefully neutral. “Have a good night, Camille.”
“Good night, Mr. Drake. I’m really looking forward to working with you.”
“Just call me Leander.”
Something flickered in his expression—his eyes darkening with an emotion she couldn’t quite read. Then he turned and disappeared into the elevator, leaving her standing in her doorway with her pulse racing and his scent lingering in the air around her.
She stood there long after the elevator doors closed, her mind spinning with the evening’s revelations. The dinner had gone well—maybe too well. Every rational thought told her to maintain professional boundaries, but her body seemed determined to ignore that advice.
He read my blog.The thought sent another wave of warmth through her chest.He values my insight.
But it was more than professional validation keeping her reeling as she finally entered the penthouse. It was the way he’d looked at her, the careful control that seemed to slip just slightly when he thought she wasn’t watching, the sense that beneath his commanding exterior lived something vulnerable and unexpectedly tender.
Whatever this was—attraction, chemistry, intellectual connection—it was already more complicated than anything she’d planned for when she’d accepted Gerri’s offer.
And despite every warning bell in her head, she couldn’t wait to see what tomorrow might bring.
FOUR
LEANDER
Dawn painted Manhattan’s skyline in shades of gold and amber as Leander stepped from the elevator onto the forty-second floor of Drake Holdings, his Italian leather shoes silent against the polished marble. These early hours belonged to him—sacred time when the building breathed in solitude, when his thoughts could unfold without interruption, where control lived in the predictable rhythm of espresso and emails and uninterrupted planning.
But the moment he rounded the corner toward his office suite, that familiar sanctuary shattered.
Camille sat behind the assistant’s desk in her new office, her blonde hair catching in the morning light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. She wore a cream silk blouse that somehow managed to look both professional and devastating, her attention focused on a tablet as she cross-referenced something with methodical precision.
Her second day, and she’s here before me.
The observation struck him with unexpected force. None of his previous assistants had ever arrived before him—most barely managed punctuality, treating the position as a stepping stone rather than a commitment. But Camille looked as though shehad always belonged in this space, as natural behind that desk as if she had designed the office herself.
His lion stirred with dangerous satisfaction.Evenly matched.
The thought sent heat crawling up his spine. Professional compatibility was one thing, but the way his pulse quickened at the sight of her was far more complicated.
Last night’s dinner pressed against his consciousness like a barely healed wound. The amber light catching in her blue eyes across the restaurant table. The navy silk that had perfectly mirrored his own shirt choice, as though they had unconsciously coordinated like lovers who knew each other’s habits. The soft curve of her cleavage that had tested his restraint with every breath she took and every laugh that made her lean forward slightly.
He hadn’t slept after walking her home. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her—the way she had looked up at him outside her penthouse door, lips slightly parted as though she might say something more. The scent of her lingered on his clothes, warm and intoxicating and impossible to ignore.
It had taken every ounce of discipline not to reach across that dinner table, not to close the distance during their walk, not to press his mouth to hers outside her door and damn the professional consequences.
She had felt his intensity—how could she not?—yet she had offered him the mercy of pretending not to notice. The lie about his late meeting still tasted bitter on his tongue. She had caught it instantly, her sharp attention to detail both impressive and unsettling.
I don’t lie. Not unless absolutely necessary.
And certainly not to someone who looked at him with that open curiosity that made deception feel like betrayal. Shedeserved better from him going forward. Professional honesty, at least.
Emotional honesty remained territory he refused to enter. That path led to vulnerability, and vulnerability led to chaos—the kind that had destroyed his father and nearly claimed his own life in the process.
Her reorganization of his email system had sparked a brief flash of panic the night before—years of perfected structure altered without warning—yet the memory of her enthusiasm softened the irritation before it could take root. Control and routine had built his empire, protected his pride, and kept grief from swallowing him whole. Assistants who disrupted that balance never lasted.
But Camille’s competence complicated that instinct.
She rose the moment he entered, tablet in hand, her movements graceful and efficient.
“Good morning, Leander.” Her voice carried that same warmth that had unsettled him yesterday. “Would you like to go over your schedule now, or should I wait for you to call on me as needed?”
