Gone with the Wolf - By Kristin Miller Page 0,8

around his shoulder for Mr. Wilder, peering into the depths of the heartless CEO’s office. A stocky man with dark hair and darker eyes stepped out. The perfectly pressed suit he wore probably cost more than a year of her rent. “Mr. Wilder, I presume?”

“Oh, no, but don’t I wish.” The man laughed, two deep belts that seemed to erupt from his belly. His gaze flipped from Emelia to Drake. “I think my guess was right on the mark, sir. You watch. She’s going to be your best personal secretary yet.”

A low rumble filled the space between them. Emelia could’ve sworn it was a growl. Where’d that come from? She double-checked the power light on the shredder.

“That’ll be all, Mr. Bloomfield,” Drake ordered, then met Emelia’s eyes. “Would you mind stepping into my office?”

No, no, no, he had to be kidding; the hard-pressed line of his lips proved otherwise.

“You’re not…I mean, you weren’t…” As reality hit, Emelia backed against the desk so the urge to jab him in the throat wouldn’t overtake her. “You lied to me.”

“Well, that depends on how you look at it. Would you mind?” He spread his arm toward his open office door. “I promise I’ll only take a few minutes of your time.”

The hard glare in Drake’s eyes defeated her rejection before she gave it. He wasn’t asking for a few minutes with her, alone in his office. He was demanding it. Emelia got the feeling he wasn’t turned down often.

“Is your name even Drake?” she snapped, passing through the door.

“My formal, given name is Russell Drake Wilder. I’m named after my father, but as I told you last night, my friends call me Drake.”

Damn it. Russell D. Wilder. His name was emblazoned over the top of every piece of correspondence that left the building. Okay, so he hadn’t lied, but he hadn’t exactly been forthcoming with the truth, which was the same in her book.

The door clicked shut and Emelia became hyperaware that very few people were ever invited into his personal space. Not only did he own the elaborate furnishings, he owned the building. Hell, he owned the entire block and the one across the street. He controlled every last ounce of breathable air and everything within the four mocha-painted walls. In this space—his space—did he think he ruled over her, too?

Probably. Ass.

She stood like a statue in the center of his office, on the edge of a bearskin rug, surrounded by dark leather and well-oiled wood. The place threw off a warm, soothing vibe, yet all Emelia could think about was how numb her insides felt—it was the cold, harsh sting of betrayal.

“You could’ve said that we were in your cellar, drinking your wine. You could’ve said your name was Russell. You lied to me.” Anger surged through Emelia’s veins. First, Drake had tried to rip her bar from underneath her—the only thing she had in the world—and then he’d kissed her, turned her on, and left her in the basement of his mansion. He’d lied. Made her feel something for him that wasn’t real. Jacking with her business was heartless, but messing with her emotions was on another whole level of snake. “That was really messed up, even for someone like you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He leaned against his desk, folded his arms and crossed his ankles. He exuded dominance, raw and unyielding. “Someone like me?”

Oh boy. She teetered between telling him what she really thought of him and playing the part of a good little secretary so she could sharpen the dagger she held behind his back.

Decisions, decisions.

Why did he have to look so polished in that suit? The stark contrast between the baby-blue hue of his shirt and the fire in his dark eyes was startling. His good looks were more than distracting—they hindered her thought process completely. Is that how he got away with screwing people out of their livelihoods?

Damn if she’d let him screw with her emotions, too. She pulled a rein on her rapidly firing libido and cinched it around her desire for vengeance.

“I mean that you’re a savvy businessman. You play with numbers, figures, and loans all day. You play the stock market, and investors of foreign trade, but playing with someone’s emotions? That’s just plain evil.”

His face didn’t twitch, flinch, flex. Nothing. He barely responded to her presence at all. Like the kiss last night never happened.

She shouldn’t be feeling like this. He was a serpent in Italian threads. A corporate drone, stuck