Page 10 of One Wicked Night with the Boss

Alarm bolted through me. The top? “You mean the fourth floor?”

“Yeah.” He moved closer, his chest brushing my shoulder as he nudged me deeper into the corner. He cursed again, then muttered, “The damn switch is stuck.”

Before I could say anything else, there was a high-pitched squeal of metal on metal. Then the car jerked and seemed to hit something solid. The impact made my knees buckle. Jonathan caught me before I could fall, his arms going around me. There was another wrenching squeal, and the grate rattled.

Silence. The elevator was still.

And Jonathan Barnes held me in a tight embrace, my breasts crushed against his chest, his broad shoulders filling my vision. My cheeks heated. Other parts of me heated. His scent teased my nose—a mix of deodorant and something dark and spicy. For a moment, I had a wild urge to press my face into his shirt and inhale more of him, like the way Jess and I popped the lids off candles in the store and buried our noses in them.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his mouth so close his breath ruffled the hair at my temples. My eyes had gotten used to the dim light, and now I could make out his features and the look of concern in his gaze as he stared down at me.

“Yes.” My voice came out breathless, and it wasn’t from the unpleasant elevator ride. Grateful for the darkness that hid my blush, I cleared my throat. “Can you fix the lever?”

He didn’t answer right away. For a beat or two, he just held me, one big palm spread over my back. Then he released me and stepped away. When he spoke, his voice was a touch lower, the rumble of it like a vibration that hit me in the chest and traveled through the rest of my body. “It would help if I had some light. Can I borrow your phone?”

Phone.Just like that, the strange spell that had fallen over me went poof. Was my short-term memory really that short? I lifted my chin. “Why ask when you can just take it?”

For a second, he seemed taken aback. Then he narrowed his gaze. “You took from me first, Miss O’Sullivan. Or have you forgotten?”

“I didn’t take anything.”

“You took photos without permission.”

“That doesn’t give you the right to manhandle me!”

He made a sound of disbelief. “I didn’t manhandle you.”

“What do you call it, then?” My voice rose. “You grabbed my phone. You put your hands on me.”

“Trust me, if I put my hands on you, you’ll know it.” He said the last in little more than a growl that echoed in the small space.

Tension arced between us—about ten percent fight and ninety percent sexual. There was no denying it. I recognized it for what it was. Judging from his expression and the rapid way his chest rose and fell, he did too.

But we were stuck in an elevator. And less than ten minutes ago, he accused me of stealing and threw me out of his office. He also implied someone hired me to . . . what? Distract him with my boobs so I could steal his drawings? The memory of his sneering glance at my chest was like a bucket of ice water in the face.

My eyes had adjusted enough for me to see my bag, and I scooped it from the floor and rummaged until I found my phone. I held it out to him. “Here. It has a flashlight.”

He looked like he wanted to say something. Then his jaw tightened and his gaze cooled. He took the phone and turned toward the panel. A second later, the flashlight flared, casting an eerie white glow on the paneled walls.

That left me free to study him while he worked, and I let my gaze wander. There was something about a man in a plain white dress shirt that always hit every single one of my buttons. The cloth was expensive—I’d felt the softness when he held me—and probably cost more than my whole outfit and then some. It strained across his shoulders as he bent and peered at the controls.

I bit my lip as my gaze moved lower. His legs were long and powerful, his dress pants just a little too tight around his calves. His tailor probably had to let them out, I thought, rubbing a hand over my lips.

Then there was his ass. I swallowed. Most men, no matter how attractive, fell short in the ass department. Not Jonathan Barnes. From where I stood, there wasn’t a damn thing wrong with his rear view. The dress pants, which were clearly bespoke, hugged the kind of taut masculine cheeks reserved for Calvin Klein underwear ads.

I swallowed again.

“Fuck.”

His soft exhalation made me jerk my gaze up. “Any luck?”

He turned his head enough for me to see his frustration. “It won’t budge.”

My own frustration rose. Maybe in the back of my mind I just assumed he would fix it.

The phone’s flashlight blinked out, plunging us back into darkness.

He let out another muttered F-bomb.

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