Page 162 of Sinful Blaze

If it were left up to her, this would be the end of the discussion. I’d accept my losses and turn tail back to the elevator.

But I’m looking at her—and at her very low neckline—and seeing someone who is so obviously Pasha’s type. High cheekbones, perfect hair, flawless skin, slender in all the right places and curvaceous where it counts.

And clearly staking territory she doesn’t have.

Well, maybe she does. This is her workplace. She is guarding her boss.

“Could you please let him know I’m here? Daphne. Covington,” I add. “We’re, ah… I mean, he’s my… um…”

Way to chicken out, loser. I rest a hand on my baby belly so she’ll maybe see what I’m trying to communicate, since I’m unable to grow a pair and spell it out myself.

Her perfect brow arches. Those lips that look made for wrapping around certain body parts twist in a cold half-smile. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. Mr. Chekhov is very busy today.”

“Oh. I can come back later?—”

“He’ll be very busy later.” She stands and walks out around the desk. Her dress stops mid-thigh and leaves nothing to the imagination. I bet quarters ricochet off her butt cheeks like bullets.

And, unlike my fat pregnant ass, she can wear killer heels that scream, Fuck me!

I don’t stand a chance against her.

She knows it.

She’s making sure I know it, too.

“Listen, honey.” She pulls off her glasses and tucks them into her dangerously low collar. “I don’t know what business you think you have with Pasha, but it’s clearly not here—otherwise, your name would be on the schedule.”

Maybe she doesn’t know my name. Maybe he doesn’t talk about me here, in his own office, at least enough for her to recognize I’m the one carrying his child as we speak.

Maybe she’s right—I’m not that important to him.

“Thanks.” I force a smile. “Have a nice day.”

I’m halfway to the elevator when I hear a door open.

“Daphne?”

The fact that he doesn’t sound pissed or irritated—actually, he sounds surprised—makes me turn back around. I give him a shy little wave. “Hey, Pasha.”

He frowns at me. “Where are you going?”

“You’re busy. I shouldn’t have just?—”

“Says who?” He aims his frown at his assistant. “How long has she been standing here?”

One thing I notice: he doesn’t look her over. At all. She’s obviously flaunting everything she’s got and he either doesn’t see it or doesn’t care.

Another thing I notice: Miss Priss is wavering under his increasingly stern gaze.

“She doesn’t have an appointment,” she stammers. “I checked your books?—”

“Daphne doesn’t need an appointment. Ever. You know that.”

I level my gaze at the woman. She knows?

I’m seeing her mask slip a bit. The batting of lashes, the fake laugh, the forced-yet-sultry smile. “Pash, you never said anything about her,” she coos with a pout.

“That’s ‘Mr. Chekhov’ to you, Ms. Fraiser. And you know damn well that Daphne Covington is my girlfriend.”

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