Mr. Mitchell Billionaires' Club Book 2 - Raylin Marks Page 0,64

a visit,” I said, to which she eyed me in response.

I rode up to the sixty-fourth floor silently, and I walked out to floor-to-ceiling glass windows that overlooked downtown LA. I’d bet that without smog, you’d see the ocean from up here. It was exquisite.

Speaking of exquisite, so was the woman who stood in front of a massive reception desk, looking at papers on the counter. She wore a form-fitting, business suit with her red-soled stilettos, and had perfectly coifed hair, skin, and manicure. It was a much different world up here. Was Jim lying about not screwing secretaries or anyone who worked for him? This chick was drop-dead gorgeous. Her eyes were a brilliant blue, and they lit up when she spun around and saw me, or so I thought. She was actually beaming at Alex, who’d gotten off the elevator next to mine and was approaching me from behind.

Alex offered up a grin to her—one of those grins—and if this chick had been in a shitty mood before, Alex had changed it instantly.

“Miss Gilbert is here to see Mr. Mitchell,” the elevator cop told her as he held the doors from closing. “How’s your day, Miss Flores?”

“Great, Mike. Thanks for sending up Miss Gilbert.” She took papers she’d been examining near a keyboard on the other side of the desk before turning to face me again. “Miss Gilbert, please follow me.”

That was it for the sweet talk. I was walking the green mile down a hallway where fancy, English-looking artwork hung—the only artwork I’d ever seen, anyway. It must’ve been the hallway to Jim’s office. Two double doors opened after Miss Flores ran a security card over a security pad.

She knocked as the doors opened. “Mr. Mitchell?”

“Yes, Summer?” he asked distantly.

“Miss Gilbert is here at your request.”

“Thank you,” he said.

I looked at her in confusion, and she just kept her poker face and walked away, leaving me to meet Mr. Mitchell in all his glory.

I held a hand over my heart, and it wasn’t because of how gorgeous Jim looked, sitting in his dark gray, three-piece-suit either. The red tie set off the striking features of his face, but this corner office, surrounded by windows overlooking Los Angeles, was enough to bring me to my knees.

“Jesus Christ,” I said softly, looking to my left, right, and back to where Jim’s large, exquisite desk was. “No wonder England’s countryside is in pictures out in that hallway. Where the hell would you hang a picture with windows instead of walls?”

“Nervous chatter?” Jim’s voice quietly rang into my ears. “Since the first moment I met you, I would have never pinned you for having a nervous bone in your body.”

I looked at him and grinned. “This is so beautiful,” I said, ignoring him calling me out on rambling. “How do you get anything done with these views?”

Jim rose from his desk and pulled off his jacket. My eyes widened when I saw the shirt he was wearing under his black vest. That was the shirt—the shirt he hated. He fucked me in—well, I fucked him in. Shit. You need to chill out, Avery.

“Nice shirt,” I said. “A little bird told me that you hated that shirt.”

“Was that little bird chirping through a magazine article you read?” He smiled—the Jim smile. “Perhaps it was in a gossip column?”

“No. I think the bird told me first hand.” I arched an eyebrow at him.

“A real-life speaking bird, huh? You must know a lot of parrots,” he said. Then he grew serious, and that scorched-earth look was creeping its way up. “Will you please have a seat, Miss Gilbert.” He pointed toward the luxurious leather seats across from where he sat in his billion-dollar, most likely Corinthian leather chair.

“The scorched-earth look doesn’t work on me,” I said, crossing my legs and trying to determine why I was here. “What do you need? Stefanie is pretty much packing my desk up right now.”

He ran a hand through his hair and pursed his lips. “Did you have to cuss out Ms. Spokes this morning, Avery?” he asked, half humored and half annoyed.

“She was a bitch to my kid, Jim. Sorry, Mr. Mitchell,” I said, my irritation beginning to grow. “That woman deserved a stiff slap across her face; she’s goddamn lucky I didn’t give her that instead of a few harsh words.”

Jim glanced down at a piece of paper. “It also states here that you threatened to kill her?” He shook his head and licked his lips.