Page 11 of One Wicked Night with the Boss

The fine hairs on my nape lifted even as I willed my eyes to adjust so I could see him. “It does that sometimes,” I said, the lie slipping from my mouth. Because it didn’t. If anything, the damn flashlight flipped on at the slightest bump or misplaced finger, usually blinding me in the process.

There was a moment of silence, then his quiet voice reached me. “The battery’s dead.”

I shook my head even though he couldn’t see me. “Impossible. It was fully charged when I got here, and I haven’t used it since.” Except to take photos.

He exhaled heavily, then put a hand on the grate and gave it a shake. It didn’t budge.

As my night vision kicked in again, I could make out a large room in the spaces between the metal grille. An intricate parquet floor led to a row of French windows that opened onto a long balcony. An icy finger of apprehension ran down my spine. “What’s on this floor?”

“The ballroom. Many homes from this period had a ballroom on the upper floors. They put them here because of the—”

“High ceilings. I know.”

He gave me a considering look. “Yes,” he murmured. “I suppose you do.”

That murmur—and the flare of interest in his gaze—made my stomach do a little flip. But I had a more pressing concern than my body’s runaway attraction to Jonathan Barnes. I took a deep breath and asked, “Is there any other way out?”

“No.” He leaned against the grate and folded his arms. “Unless you can think of something, Miss O’Sullivan, it looks like you’re spending Halloween in this elevator with me.”

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