"That is not reassuring."
"I am not trying to reassure you." His voice roughens, and the faint rasp drags over my skin. "I am trying to remain honest."
"Honest about what?" I ask, wanting andnot wantingto know the answer.
"I am afraid you are my mate."
The word is a lightning strike through the room.
Mate.
No. Absolutely not. My body hears the word and lights up like the worst possible switchboard operator. Slick swells between my thighs. My mouth goes dry. My fingers flex against the notebook because I need to hold something that is not him.
"No," I say. "No, this is not a mate thing."
His gaze stays on mine. "No?"
"It's attraction."
"Is it?"
"Yes."
His head tilts a fraction. "You sound very certain."
"I am."I am not."Women get attracted to inappropriate men all the time. It's practically a national pastime."
His mouth softens at the edge. Barely. Enough to make my stomach dip.Plunge.
I point at him with my notebook shield. "This is chemistry. Hormones. Pheromones. Biology."
"Hmm, interesting theory. Let’s test it."
My brain stops. "What?"
He comes around the desk at last, slow enough to give me every chance to move, to tell him no, to remember I came here for answers about coffee plantations and corporate ownership. My feet stay where they are because they are idiots. Too dumb to recognize danger and flee. Skylor stops in front of me and reaches for the notebook. His fingers brush mine as he takes it. The contact is light, barely skin against skin, but it still spikes straight through my belly. He sets the notebook on his desk.
"You are a journalist," he says. "You are curious. Let's see if this isonlyattraction."
"You mean kiss me."
"Yes."
"Again, not how journalism works, Your Royal Blueberry."
His brows lift. Oh no. I said that out loud. A beat of silence, and then his mouth curves, not quite a smile, but close enough to threaten sanity. "Your Royal Blueberry," he repeats. “Is that how you see me, Beatrice Watson? A sweet treat?”
"No. I. I panicked." My sentences fall out scrambled while every brain cell lights itself on fire. “We’re professionals. Boundaries. Professional boundaries.”
“Apparently not,” he says with another one of those half-smiles. Then his amusement fades into something hotter. "My boundaries are the only reason you are still untouched."
The room goes very still.
My breath catches at the base of my throat. The line should offend me. Maybe it does, somewhere underneath the sudden slick heat ramping up from a drip to a full-fledged faucet leak between my thighs. But he said it while standing close enough for me to see the faint tremor in his fingers before he reaches foward and presses a button set into the glossy surface of his desk. The glass walls behind me darken in a smooth, silent sweep until the city, corridor, and every possible witness vanish behind opaque panels. My pulse trips over itself.
"What was that?"
"Privacy."
