Page 47 of Guilty as Sin

Cora

When Brady tells me we’re going into his office, I feel a strange thrill in my stomach. A dangerous thrill. If I’m visiting his workplace, then we aren’t just crossing paths in this penthouse. We aren’t leading separate lives if I let our lives get intertwined.

I tie my hair in its professional low ponytail, then put on my navy sheath dress and black pumps, the sleekest business outfit I have. I struggle with the zipper, but there’s no way I’m asking Brady to zip me up with the hideous bruise on my back.

Stupid fire hydrant. Stupid fucking asshole who takes pleasure in kicking a woman lying trapped on the ground. I find myself hoping he’s dead, that I killed him with his own club.

Brady has the car meet us on the less convenient side of the high-rise, away from the scene of my attack. It’s just a patch of sidewalk to me, but I make a mental note of Brady’s attention to detail. Not only does he notice more than the average man, he acts on it.

Pete drives us through skyscraper canyons shimmering with heat. When I ask, he reports that Gloria played spectacularly at her recital, and he thanks both me and Brady for giving him the night off.

In the backseat, I flash a smug smile at Brady. He mouths the word brat, and his implication sends heat between my legs.

I probably should’ve expected my billionaire husband to have an impressive office suite, but when I’m actually standing in it, I’m stunned.

We’re on the eighty-third floor, and his private office stretches extravagantly along the east wall. The lake sparkles as a blue expanse in the distance, somehow adding even more luxury to the space. The room is a long rectangle, with both of the long walls completely glass, the interior wall displaying the rest of the bustling office.

When Brady locks the door behind us, he presses a button that turns the inner wall opaque. Everyone else disappears, and it’s just the two of us.

“Drink?” he asks me, sauntering to the far end of his office.

Both of the shorter walls are covered with dark-paneled bookshelves. Paired with the expansive glass, it’s a magnificent blend of old world and new. Brady’s long black desk is contemporary and stylish, while the bar he’s standing over could be an antique. It’s a large sepia globe, hinged open to reveal the bottles within.

“Do you like single malt?” he asks.

“I’ve never tried it.” Not because I’m not interested, but because it’s out of my budget.

Or it was out of my budget.

“Ah, then you’re in for a treat.” He pours us each a tumbler and we clink glasses.

“Oh wow, that is good,” I say, licking my lips.

Brady looks pleased, but it’s as if he’s more interested in my liking the whiskey than he is in the whiskey itself. He sets aside his glass and starts to peruse the shelves.

I have no idea what he’s looking for. So I simply stand back, glass in hand, trying not to admire him too much in his tailored charcoal suit.

He runs his long fingers over the spines of the books he’s browsing, and I bite my lip as I think about everything those fingers can do.

“Here we are.” He pulls out an oversized volume.

It’s an ancient-looking book, its covers dusty brown and substantial, at least two feet by two feet in size. Brady carries it to his desk and crackles it open. As he leafs carefully through the pages, I see that they’re old survey maps.

“You said that the warehouse is northwest of the city?” he asks.

My chest swells with excitement. We’re not scoping out the warehouse in person, but somehow this is better, with Brady bringing me here to his office, as dangerously intimate as it is.

“Yes,” I confirm, pulling out my phone.

Last night, after Brady so rudely sent me to bed alone, I channeled my frustration into deducing the precise location of Seven’s warehouse, a lone building on the outer limits of West Park’s abandoned industrial area. I zoom out from my pin to compare my map to the old survey, but my screen’s not big enough.

Brady circles around to his computer. Without looking, he hooks his ankle backward to pull up his executive chair, sitting down in one smooth motion. I’m baffled by how sexy the simple action is. He brings up the modern-day map on one of his enormous monitors, and I lay the book open on his desk to compare.

I stand beside his chair as we look back and forth between screen and old paper. When we realize we’re on the book’s wrong page, we both reach to turn it together, his hand on top of mine. He keeps it there as we flip to the correct map.

“Interesting,” he muses.

What? I want to ask. The fact that merely turning a page together literally makes me wet?