Conflict of Interest - By Allyson Lindt Page 0,15

as she studied the graffitied walls in the near distance, her blood warmed with other thoughts. It was a shame she couldn’t practice her being non-frigid now. An abandoned spot out in the open but with no one around for miles except distant freeway traffic? The memories of his hands on her skin, his fingers pulling her hair, were all enough to send her thoughts into overdrive.

He glanced over his shoulder. “You coming?”

It didn’t take much self-control, but it did fill her with regret to bite back the answer of “not yet, but I’m hoping to soon” that she would have given him on Saturday. Instead, she forced out a simple, “Sure.”

Chapter 5

The inside of the abandoned barely-a-building was exactly what Scott had been hoping for when he’d seen the outside from the freeway a few weeks back. The only things still standing were the cinder block walls. Two-by-fours and other debris littered the ground, morning light streamed through the non-existent ceiling, and decades of spray paint decorated all of it. It was the perfect inspiration for the room he was designing in-game.

And he was having a hard time focusing on anything but the gorgeous scenery in the middle of the devastation. The curve of her ass in her pencil skirt. The way the fabric slid several inches up her thighs when she lowered herself onto the blanket he’d set out for her. The fantastic view when the top of her shirt pulled open, exposing a hint of smooth flesh and round breasts.

A throb below his waist nagged him, and he adjusted his jeans. That was the last thing he needed her to see. Or the first. He shoved the thoughts aside and tried to focus on taking reference shots while she talked.

And maybe a couple of her.

She stared up at his viewfinder, lips pursed, but a smile danced behind her eyes. “I’m not your subject matter.”

He shrugged and turned back to the building interior. It was probably for the best; he really needed these pictures.

“Your calendar says you have an investor dinner in a couple of weeks. That sounds big.” She had been poring over his social engagements for the last fifteen minutes, figuring out what she thought it was appropriate to prep him for and looking for opportunities to make him shine for the right people.

Just like his dad had forced him into when he was younger. So unappealing. But at least she was kind about it instead of degrading. He snapped a couple more shots. “We do it every year. Buy expensive food for the people who make sure we stay in business, present slide shows, assure them we’re not washing their money down the drain—funny how few of them ask how much the night costs—and play nice for four or so hours.”

He knew they were a necessary evil, but he still hated knowing that almost everyone he spoke to during an investor dinner only saw dollar signs when they looked at him. It might be nice instead if they actually cared what kind of work and creativity went into the projects he and his teams produced.

“Perfect.” She set her phone on her knee, tapping away. “This is one of those opportunities that we can take advantage of, spread some good will, remind people how affable you are.” She leaned over farther, hair falling around her face before she tucked it behind one ear, bottom lip resting between her teeth in concentration.

His breath caught, and he let his gaze linger. He pulled his attention away again when she looked up, but not before her eyes met his and he glimpsed the pink spreading over her cheeks.

“What are you wearing?” she asked.

How had that become an issue? He looked down, and an upside-down Hulk glared back at him. “Come on, you can’t make me change my everyday clothes. This is what I wear to the office.”

She exhaled. “I meant to the dinner. You’ve rented a tux, correct?”

Oh. That. Rented. He almost snorted at the word. He’d had one tailored for him by a brilliant designer he knew in Italy. “No.”

“Another thing for the list.”

He tucked his camera into its bag, set it all aside, and crouched in front of her, hand covering hers before she could tap out more notes. It took concentration not to stroke his finger over the fleshy edge of her palm. “Please don’t.” He kept his voice kind but firm. “I already own one.”

“You own a tux.” She didn’t yank her hand away. It