He leans forward, resting his palms on my desk, his eyes the same gray as Shane’s, but his are cold and cunning while Shane’s are intelligent and calculating. “Yet another new secretary,” he observes.
The ways I don’t care for that description are too many to count. “And you’re Derek Brandon.”
“And you know this how?” he asks, a predatory tone to the question that reaches beyond its simplicity and is meant to intimidate me.
“Because,” I say, stamping the paper in front of me to assure him he does not have my full attention, “I’ve met your brother and you look like your father.”
His reply is a long, intense stare, another attempt to stir unease in me because he clearly thinks I’m the gazelle outside the lion’s office. I laugh after a few beats. “Do you not like to be told you look like your father?” And before I can stop myself I say, “Would you rather I say you look like your brother? Or do you prefer to hear that he looks like you?”
I’ve earned an instant scowl and he shoves off my desk as if pushed. “Good luck with the job. I hear there’s a betting pool for how many days you’ll last.” And with that fear-mongering remark, he walks into his father’s office. And that’s when my skin prickles and I feel Shane before I even see him.
My gaze jerks to the hall, and there he is, far better looking and intimidating than Derek could ever hope to be, leaning on the wall, just watching me, his expression all hard lines and shadows. Seconds tick by like hours in which I wonder if he thinks me still being here is a sign of guilt rather than necessity. I wonder if he knows his concern over my possible betrayal made him act like the true spawn of his father. Or maybe it wasn’t acting at all? Worse, I wonder if he thinks the way Derek was leaning over my desk infers intimacy and my guilt. Another couple of seconds pass by, and he turns and walks away, and I swear he takes all of the air in the room with him.
I shake myself, my decision about tonight’s meeting made. Grabbing the Rolodex, I find Shane’s number, surprised his cell phone is on the card, and I key it into my phone. Next I grab the file on my desk and walk toward the office, only to have the door shut, but I still hear Derek say, “I told you Shane would buy the Nina Thompson story.”
I grimace and turn away, walking to the desk and punching the intercom. “Yes, Ms. Stevens?”
“I have your document. Shall I bring it in to you for your review?”
“Leave it on your desk.”
My list for the day complete, I ask, “Do you need anything else before I leave?”
“Just an answer to a question.”
“Of course.”
“How many days?”
I blink and then I grimace at what I know is a reference to my conversation with Derek. “However long I stay,” I reply, “won’t be determined by an office bet or by delicate sensibilities I don’t have.”
There is silence. And more silence before he says, “Good night, Ms. Stevens.”
I pop to my feet and grab my purse, shoving it over my head and across my body, and all but run through the now dark lobby. Punching the elevator call button about ten times, I will it to produce a car. The door to the offices opens and that prickling sensation is almost instantaneous. I whirl around and he is walking toward me, and why, why, why, does he have to be so stunningly male when he was so stunningly an asshole?
I lift my chin, refusing to be that gazelle. He takes his time, torturing me with his approach, until he towers over me, too close. So very close, and I can smell him, all spicy, and masculine, wonderful, in the way that he defines and owns. I can almost feel him. That is how much, despite him being an asshole today, I want this man.
“Running again?” he asks softly, his voice a low, raspy taunt that somehow still manages to be a seduction.
“I’m not running. And I’m not quitting a job that pays double what it should to compensate me for tolerating your father. I was going to call you when I got downstairs.”
“Call me how? I’m not at my desk.”
“Your cell phone number was in the Rolodex. I was going to tell you I can’t