He doesn’t reply, merely pushes the bar to open the door.
It’s a roof terrace, half way up this skyscraper, the remaining floors looming over us. We’re on the fifteenth floor, much of the city sprawled out before us, and other buildings rising around us, every window lit. There’re a few dim fairy lights on a handful of wooden tables, and a couple of loungers with cushions. It’s mild for October. This could be romantic if I wasn’t being strong-armed against my will.
The thought almost makes me laugh, it’s so ludicrous. But it dies in my throat when I see we’re not alone. There’s a man out here.
He turns as we walk out, sees Van Wyk, and straightens.
“Give me your jacket,” Van Wyk snaps, “then go back inside and ensure we’re not disturbed.”
The man doesn’t hesitate. He pulls off his tux, leaving him in a dress shirt, hands it to Van Wyk and walks through the door we just exited from. He doesn’t even glance at me.
I’m alone on a roof terrace with a man who’s just threatened to sue me into oblivion, and told another toensure we’re not disturbed.A tremble runs through me.
Van Wyk’s holding the jacket on the end of two fingers.
“I’m not wearing that,” I say. I didn’t shiver because I’m cold.
“I didn’t ask you to.” He drapes it over a nearby table, then pulls me closer to him. My bicephurts, but he clearly doesn’t care. I’m very conscious of the proximity of his body. There’s a hint of cologne, spice and musk, and his steel-grey eyes bore into mine. I swallow, my mouth dry.
“Good tables, these,” Van Wyk murmurs. “Very sturdy.”
I don’t know what the hell that’s supposed to mean. “It’s a lovely venue,” I agree cautiously.
“Lovely, yes,” he echoes, and moistens his lips.
That act shouldn’t have the impact it has on me, but I can’t look away. My nipples tighten, and heat pools low. I’ve forgotten how to breathe. Is he about to kiss me?
I’m only conscious of his presence, ever so close to me, the hard lines of his body, the strength of his grip. The way he’s pulled me from the safety of the presence of others—not that they ever seemed to care—then threatened me with his ridiculous claim of a corporate espionage suit?
Howdarehe?
Yet damn me if I can’t look away from his eyes, save to trace the lines of his shirt across his broad chest, and his square pecs.
Anger mingling with confusion, and beneath it all, my response to his closeness and that body I can’t look away from.
Van Wyk walks me backward, hand still on my arm. I don’t know where we’re going, then my shoulders hit the wall. He releases my arm, but only to grip my wrists. My clutch slips from my grasp, falling to the ground.
He lifts both my wrists, pinning them to the wall above my head. I try to pull free, but he simply tightens his grip without even straining. His eyes are inches from mine, watching me like he’s curious what I’ll do.
“Get your handsoffme.” There’s a quiver in my voice I can’t help, and I mask it with a glare. I’ve never felt so vulnerable.
He doesn’t release me or even reply. Instead, he presses closer, holding me helpless. I look down, and his chest is almost brushing up against me. I bite at my lip.
“What did you call me in there?” he asks, voice low, tugging at me.
I swallow hard. “I’m really sorry if I—”
“What did you call me?”
“An… an asshole.”
“And?”
Shit.
“And… a bastard. I’m really sorry. It wasn’t you, it was—”
“And?”
