Page 25 of Pure Abandon

Alexander Asher is standing not ten feet behind me. His hands rest in his pockets and he has a grin on his face, amused by his own comment. His body seems casual, but his eyes glare… no, they pierce daggers straight into mine. I take a moment to appraise him again. He is just as tall and well built as I recall. His shoulders wide with clear definition you can see even in a suit.

He is wearing a deep charcoal-gray suit with a platinum tie over a crisp white shirt. A Patek Philippe watch glistens under the pin lighting of the museum, as do his eyes.

Those golden eyes are wide and mesmerizing. It’s like looking at the sun. You know you shouldn’t stare directly at it because it’ll hurt your eyes, but just knowing you shouldn’t makes you want to do it more.

I wish there were magic sunglasses that could protect me from his gaze. They are serious in contrast to the unnerving curve. It’s not wide or even a smile. It’s a dare. A dare to enter his world.

I look down for fear of being pulled in. He is an arrogant son of bitch, and I have to remember that. Staring at the floor, I look for something, anything else, to focus on. His feet are pointed slightly outward as his legs are spread wider than most, as if to accommodate a large…

Get a grip, woman!

“Good evening, Mr. Asher.” My voice is courteous and professional. He is, after all¸ my boss’ boss.

“Good evening, Mrs. Monroe,” he says.

I choose not to correct him. Our exchange the other day was intense and, honestly, I don’t know the appropriate thing to say.

Yet, as if on cue, he opens his mouth and leads the way. “You’re a voyeur. I would have pegged you for an exhibitionist.”

I lift my head. The comment catches me off guard, as with everything he does. I don’t know if he is alluding to the fact that I was caught staring at the couple, which would easily make me a voyeur, and I don’t know if I can really deny that. Or perhaps he’s just acknowledging I am at this exhibit. It’s a harmless thing to say.

But the look in his eyes and his shit-eating grin alerts me he is shrewder than that. I follow his eyes as they trail down the bridge of my nose, past my lips, and watch them slowly trickle down my neck and farther south until they stop, ever so slowly, on my breasts.

Oh, for the love of God. He’s staring at my breasts and the bastard is easily recalling my “exhibition” last week in my wet white shirt!

Of all the inappropriate…

My eyes are wide and my mouth opens in an attempt to say something, but I stop myself. I can’t make assumptions. And, more importantly, I cannot give him the satisfaction of affecting me in any way.

I am a professional woman, and he will treat me like one!

I hold the program for the exhibit in my hand over my cleavage and block his eyes from their current entertainment. “Chaplin fan?” I ask, satisfied when his eyes rise again to meet mine. They might affect me when they’re staring into mine, but I’d much prefer it over his staring at my chest.

Asher doesn’t miss a beat. “Not particularly, but I have come here quite a few times to see other films.”

He’s a man who likes the arts. I shouldn’t be surprised now that I know a thing or two about him. He has a strong connection to music through his acquisition of a music company and his charities. He bought Marks Communications so he has a vast interest in production. Makes you wonder why someone with his interests would go into mergers and acquisitions.

I guess that’s what you do when Granddaddy is footing the bill.

“What do you particularly like about this exhibit? Seems a bit redundant to come back more than once.” My curiosity is peaked. It would be nice to have some common ground with this man. I’m supposed to be working with him, yet I’m petrified to be around him.

Did I finally just admit that to myself?

Asher takes his hands from his pockets and holds them in front of his body, his heavy footsteps inching toward me.

“It’s the auteurist approach to film that intrigues me,” he says, closing the gap between us, his eyes steady and never losing their grip on mine. “Many people believe the writer is the author. They create the characters, give them names and words to say. Others feel it’s the actors who portray the lives lived onscreen. They breathe life into the words.”

He is only feet from me and closing in. My eyes, my ears… my soul is mesmerized by the mere presence of him.

“But the auteurist…” He continues. “The real author is the director. He has the power. The puppet master who controls the strings.”

Asher is now just inches from my face. The heat from his body and that wicked, intoxicating aroma that enveloped me before is now drowning me in a sea of Asher.

My mouth is dry and I can do nothing but breathe out in small, shallow breaths.

“I like control. And more than that, I like people thinking they hold the power when I was the one holding the strings all along,” Asher declares. He isn’t angry or crass as he says the words. They are merely a declaration.

I study his eyes, which at this proximity allow me to see the flecks of brown in them you would easily miss if you weren’t really looking. There is nothing sinister in them. Just pure, unadulterated determination.