Page 26 of Wicked Fortune

“Yes.”

He extends his hand, and I pull the contract free then pass it to him. He flips through it, checking every one of the pages for my initials and my full signature at the end.

Without a word, he turns his back to me, then crosses to his desk. I hear a drawer open and close, the contract disappearing inside.

I expect him to return, but instead he sits, godlike, behind that massive desk, his eyes locked on mine.

Then, with clear deliberation, he slides his gaze down, pausing at my breasts. My skirt. “You’ve met all my conditions?”

I nod, and he lifts his hand, bending his fingers in a come here gesture. I hesitate, but comply, my movements feeling unnatural as I walk forward under his unblinking gaze.

I stop when I can put my hand on the desktop. I’m close enough I can smell an intoxicating hint of his familiar cologne. Tension stretches between us, taut and undeniable. My entire body is warm, and I wonder if he can hear my heartbeat.

Suddenly, I’m acutely aware of the whisper of lace beneath my clothes, and I fear that every secret thought and every wild desire I have is now on display for him.

For one terrifying moment, I’m certain he’s going to tell me to take a step back. To unbutton my blouse. To lift my skirt just enough to confirm that I really am playing this game.

And so help me, I want to.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he taps a button on his desk. I hear the echo of a low buzz, and a moment later, Lila steps into the office.

“Please cancel the rest of the interviews. Ms. Parker will be joining us as of today.”

“Of course,” she says, then disappears with a look of quiet efficiency.

I stand taller, thinking of Opie and feeling strangely smug that I got the job instead of him. As if the fact that it was my choice to sign the contract somehow really did make me the best candidate.

A delusional thought, but I cling to it. It feels safer than the knowledge that I’m here because I’m playing a naughty game with Holt. Not to mention that I’m here because I’m also playing my own secret game of Clue, and I had to win this job in order to get in close, get info, and somehow vindicate Jenny.

Except I’m not there yet. I haven’t any idea where to start looking for clues, and in the meantime, I have to make good on Holt’s demands. So I wait, my body tingling with expectation as I stand in front of his desk. Any moment, he’s going to demand that I unbutton my blouse or inch up my skirt. Hell, maybe he wants me to crawl over his desk, sex kitten style.

I don’t know.

All I do know is something’s coming. He’ll want proof of my compliance. More than that, he’ll want to take what he bargained for.

But he says nothing. Not one single word.

For what feels like an eon, he simply holds my gaze, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, as if we’re playing a strange game of chicken. And with every beat of my heart, I feel my nipples hard against the lace of the bra and my core tighten with a familiar need. I make no sound, though. I don’t squirm, I don’t lick my lips.

There is no way I’m giving the bastard that satisfaction. I’m here for Jenny. And if sex games are the price, well, then game fucking on.

Finally, he leans back, the chair creaking just slightly as he says, his voice low, “Shall we get down to business?”

“All right.” It’s a simple response, but even I can hear my eagerness. An eagerness that fades with a surge of furious disappointment when he gestures for me to sit in the guest chair I’m standing beside, saying, “I have a number of documents I need you to review and sort.”

I meet his eyes, certain he can see both my need and my anger. But I take a seat, my eyes never leaving his. “Sounds good,” I say, and in that moment, I hate him with the wildest of furies.

But, dammit, I hate myself more.

TEN

The morning unfolds like a minefield. I feel like I’m a psychic who knows an attack is coming, but has no idea when. I’m walking on eggshells—wearing the proof of his expectation under my clothes—but in all the hours between my arrival and lunch, he’s barely even looked at me. Much less suggested he’s going to sweep his desk clean, lay me over it, and fuck me senseless.

I tell myself that’s a good thing.

It’s not a good thing.

The anticipation is killing me. Not because I dread the inevitable, but because I crave it. And, yeah, I hate myself a little because what I should be doing is trying to gather information on Jenny and the parties.