Gone with the Wolf - By Kristin Miller Page 0,1

be here?”

Although Emelia knew the man wasn’t really a wolf—come on, those only existed in Paris-set horror movies, Twilight, and her wildest dreams—he gazed at her like he was insatiably hungry. Her body quivered beneath his gorgeous stare. Stunned by the man’s raw sexual appeal, Emelia shook cobwebs from her brain. “Excuse me?”

“You said you hate parties and that you have to be here. Did some crazed date make you come?”

“Oh, if you only knew.”

“Enlighten me.” He smiled slowly, twinging something in Emelia’s chest.

As much as she wanted to tell this stranger the truth, she couldn’t.

I’m here to seduce our boss. Chain him to his bed. Take some pictures. Instagram them to the web. You know, the usual Halloween party antics.

Not only would the hot-to-trot stranger laugh in her face, he would probably run to her superiors and blab his brains out, and she would lose her secretarial temp job. She couldn’t let that happen. She needed the money, and she needed to figure out a way to talk to Mr. Wilder about the massive wrench he’d thrown in her gears. Two months ago, he claimed to have bought the building that her bar, the Knight Owl, resides in. If she hadn’t dumped her savings into the place, she would’ve hired a lawyer to figure out what was going on and fight back. But under the circumstances, Emelia could barely afford the gas in her car to get to work.

She’d spent weeks trying to get past Wilder Financial’s complaint department and kept ramming into a stone wall of indifference. No matter how many letters Emelia sent demanding to set up a meeting with Mr. Wilder, or how many times she called to talk about how it was impossible that they both had a deed to the same building, no one listened. No one cared. Even when she’d tried to bypass Mr. Wilder’s flunkies and communicate with him directly, she’d gotten the same response. Mr. Stuck-Up Wilder refused to acknowledge her presence. He always seemed too occupied at his East Coast offices, or unavailable to meet.

So she’d taken a job at his office, hoping to kill two birds with one stone—she’d make some money, and figure out what the hell was going on in the process.

Mr. Wilder wouldn’t be able to ignore her once he was good and tied to his bed.

Only that plan had gone down the toilet, along with her hopes and dreams of the Knight Owl becoming the most well-known bar in Seattle. Mr. Wilder had been called away on business and wouldn’t be attending the Halloween party after all.

“Guess you could say I was dying to pay back Mr. Wilder for something.”

Her words seemed to intrigue the stranger. His dark brows quirked. His shoulders tensed—only a bit—but she noticed. He took a long, hard drink instead of responding, and an uncomfortable silence fizzed between them.

Did she say something wrong? Did he have some vendetta against Mr. Wilder, too? Rumors of Mr. Wilder’s coldness preceded him. Maybe his harsh, careless demeanor had permeated through his business more than she’d originally thought. The possibility lessened Emelia’s guilt, taking weight off her shoulders—Mr. Wilder deserved what was coming to him.

“You never said what you were doing down here.” Emelia tapped her fingers against the stone-topped barrel, wondering if there was another bouncer on the way. And exactly what was the alcohol content of the wine she drank? Her insides were warm and her brain was fuzzy. No wine had ever affected her this way before. “Are you on duty?”

“On duty?” The tension in his shoulders eased as a laugh escaped him. “No, I’m here for the party. I work for Wilder Financial Services like you do.”

“I’ve never seen you there before.” She would’ve remembered seeing a Greek god wandering the whitewashed halls. Damn, her teeth were beginning to chatter. She would be lucky to remember any of this night. What a disaster. “Which depot—I mean, department, are you in?”

“Administration.” He leaned against a stone pillar and pushed his dark hair behind his ears. Why was he acting like he had nowhere to go? Didn’t he have to get back up to the party? He’d have a date waiting for him, wouldn’t he? Drop-dead gorgeous Channing Tatum look-alikes never came to parties stag. “You?”

“I’m a temp. I started last month as a secretary, but they’ve already shuffled me ’round to marketing, directory assistance, and main office…something.” She shooed her hand around her face as the words evaporated from her brain. “I’m