“I can handle your challenge just fine.” But I run with his instruction, tossing back the Dalmore, savoring the smoked aftertaste, then set the empty glass down with a heavy clunk.
His chuckle is low, barely audible, yet so goddamn devastating. He pushes to his feet, plucks both tumblers from the table, and strides to the drink cart.
I sit in awkwardness, feet perched like blasphemy in his holy boardroom until he returns with more alcohol.
“Are you satisfied I’ve played enough of this one-sided game?” I wiggle my toes, pretending I don’t feel entirely naked and exposed.
“Not even close.” He reclaims his seat, places down the drinks, then leans forward, snagging my ankles. In a single tug he reels me forward, chair wheels gliding, before he places my heels in his lap.
My stomach plummets. “Raffa?—”
“Relax.” His voice drops an octave, his thumb tracing the arch of my foot.
Pleasure blindsides me, rocketing up my calves, lighting a fuse someplace insanely dangerous. “What are you?—”
“Quiet.” The word is soft, but obedience feels compulsory.
“It’s been a twelve-hour day,” I argue. “My feet are filthy.”
His thumb digs harder along my arch, kneading, stroking, dragging the most unladylike moan from my throat. “Some men like a little filth.”
“Some menshould realize this is extremely unprofessional. What happens if one of your team see me?”
I attempt to retract my feet, but he clamps a heavy palm around my ankles while reaching under the table. A click of a button sounds, then the internal glass wall and door of the boardroom frosts into a white screen of privacy.
I blink, dumbfounded.
“Impressed?” he drawls.
I soothe my drying mouth with a hard swallow. “Given the price tag on that privacy glass I’m assuming you’re prone to giving impromptu massages.”
“Your assumption is incorrect. But it’s worth its weight in gold given the way you’re moaning. My staff will think I’ve bent CrossPoint’s golden girl over my desk. My reputation thanks you for the favor.”
I gape and retract my legs with a violent tug.
“It was a joke, Isla.” He snickers, raising his hands in surrender. “My employees knock off early on Fridays. The only people who might still be here are my brothers.”
“Hilarious.” I shove my feet back into the absolutely stunning yet excruciatingly painful stilettos. “Who knew you had a sense of humor.”
His laughter peters into a silent grin.
Gorgeous.
Immaculate.
Downright infuriating.
I throw back the entirety of my drink. Two gulps and a whole heap of burn.
“Another?” he asks.
“Are you trying to get me drunk?” I choke out.
“No, just attempting to see more of what’s behind the curtain.”
The vague response gives me pause. Raffael isn’t usually cryptic. He’s direct. A transparent shark.
“Why?” I ask.
