Page 25 of Wicked Fortune

“Sure,” I say, taking a seat as he turns to face the window while taking the call. Though I try to eavesdrop, his voice is low enough that I can hear nothing except a brief hint of irritation that matches the sharp line of his posture.

I want to hear more, but since I can’t, I use the delay to gather myself in this overwhelming and—frankly—intimidating space that’s so much more impressive and imposing than my imagination had conjured.

When Bree was the Starks’ nanny, she occasionally took the kids to Stark Tower to see their dad. So she’s not only been to his office in downtown LA, she’s also described it to me in all of its elegant, polished, and undoubtedly expensive glory.

I haven’t seen it myself, but I’m more than certain Holt’s office puts Damien’s to shame. This is a space that demands attention.

Yet at the same time, it seems a perfect fit for a man with Matthew’s innate command and poise. It feels like a throne room, the place from where the king wields his power.

And that, I think, is exactly what it is. What he is.

Two of the walls are entirely glass, revealing his kingdom as well as the spread of the San Fernando Valley beyond, all the way to the mountains rising near Santa Clarita. The entire room feels drenched in light, casting shadows that seem to dance across the leather furniture and Holt’s expansive desk that must be at least as large as a queen-size bed, and clearly designed to intimidate anyone not sitting in the black leather throne.

Like, for example, me.

Still, despite the glitz and glam, the room doesn’t feel ostentatious, but it does feel like power. More than that, it feels like Holt.

“He doesn’t need to know we talked.” Matthew’s voice is still low, his back still to me, but he’s moved closer to his desk, and the acoustics must be better because I can just make out his steely-edged words. “I’ll shoot him a text. I want the revised event budget in my inbox with his annotations in two hours, along with notes explaining every flagged discrepancy.”

He bends over and scribbles something on a notepad. “I’ll dig into that. Okay, see ya,” he adds, the words seeming strangely informal considering the tone of this conversation.

He taps the earpiece to end the call, and I watch his back as he rolls his shoulders, then takes off the headset and tosses it onto his desk, a shadow in his eyes. “A friend?” I ask, then immediately regret the question.

He slides his hands into his pockets and turns, his gaze landing on me with a weight that sends a shiver down my spine. “Pardon?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I just heard you say ‘see ya.’” I shrug. “I always pictured CEO offices as bastions of proper English.”

If there was a shadow before, it’s gone now. In fact, for a moment, I can see nothing in his expression, and I wonder if he’s still lost in whatever crisis he was dealing with on that call. Then he steps out from behind his desk, and the lingering tension seems to melt away, leaving a man who is completely confident and one hundred percent in control.

“Ah, the see ya maneuver.” He walks toward me, and I stand to meet him. “That’s my trademark bamboozle. I use it in the midst of every multi-million-dollar negotiation. It always throws the other side off their game.”

He flashes a crooked smile as he looks me over with a slow, practiced assessment, his gaze lingering in a way that leaves no doubt he knows exactly what I’m wearing—and precisely what it’s doing to me.

I fight the urge to cross my arms, to close myself off from the effect he’s clearly having. But I don’t. I can’t. I’m here for a reason, even if that reason feels like it’s shifting, slipping out of my control with each second under his watchful gaze.

I’m in over my head.

The thought spins through my mind even as a smile lights his face.

“No,” he says.

I blink, confused. I’m not in over my head?

“I have no trademark bamboozle,” he explains his jest, apparently seeing my confusion.

“Oh.” I grimace, feeling like an idiot.

“Perhaps I should get one.” His voice is gentle, and I realize he’s taking pity on me. And though I know my assessment might change in an instant, right then, I actually trust Matthew Holt.

For a moment, we both stand in silence. Then he says, “Ms. Parker,” in a voice that’s smooth as silk, but there’s a thread of something darker, too. Something that destroys that nascent trust even while sending a surge of heat through me.

“Um? Yes?”

“I believe that’s for me?” He nods to my purse and the document that’s poking out of it.

“Yes,” I manage, my voice steadier than I feel.

“Signed?” His expression doesn’t change, but the fire in his voice is undeniable, and like Pavlov’s dog, I react, my nipples going tight as I fight the urge to squeeze my thighs together.