Page 3 of One Wicked Night with the Boss

My stomach lurched. Thank goodness I didn’t eat lunch. The temp agency called before I could get to it, and then I’d scrambled to find an appropriate outfit.

“Name’s Tom, by the way,” the doorman said.

I swallowed. “Nice to meet you.” The mansion’s interior was visible through the grate, and my stomach did a flip as we rose into the air. “Which floor is Mister Barnes’ office on?”

“The third. No one goes to the fourth floor. Not unless you want to see the Blue Lady.”

I jerked my gaze from the grate. “Blue Lady?”

Tom nodded. “The daughter of old Mister Merriman, the mansion’s original owner. Legend says he built this place for her and her fiancé to live after they got married. After the fiancé died of tuberculosis, she rode the elevator to the fourth floor and threw herself off the balcony.”

“This elevator?” My voice came out weaker than I intended.

“The very same. No cause to be alarmed, though. She’s an elusive ghost. They say she only appears when she likes someone.” He gave a good-natured laugh. “That probably means Mister Barnes has never seen her.”

The elevator shuddered to a stop. He unlocked the grate and slid it back. “Mister Barnes’ office is directly ahead.”

I stepped onto another expensive-looking rug and stared at a pair of double doors with gold handles. A tiny brass plate read:

Jonathan Barnes, Architect.

Tom spoke behind me. “Good luck.”

I turned. “Thanks,” I said as he slid the grate back across and hit the button. As the elevator rattled and started its descent, I thought I heard him add, “You’re gonna need it.”

My heart sped up, and my hand gripping my bag’s strap grew sweaty. Out of nowhere, my dad’s voice drifted through my head, his no-nonsense Boston accent like a balm on my nerves. “Chin up, kid. You’re an O’Sullivan. You can do anything.”

Right, I thought. Jonathan Barnes was just a man. How bad could he be, really?

I faced forward and squared my shoulders. Then I marched to the doors and knocked.

A deep voice sounded from the other side. “Enter.”

My heart skipped a beat. I gulped and pressed the latch. The doors swung open, revealing an office straight out of Downton Abbey. The walls were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves carved with scrolling vines. The same carvings appeared in the coffered ceiling, which soared at least twenty feet overhead. Chairs and tables were positioned before a yawning fireplace. But these things only held my attention for a second.

Because a man stood at one of the windows, his back to me. His dark head was bent, as though he studied the street below.

I cleared my throat. “Mister Barnes?”

“You’re late.”

Mortification washed over me. “I know. I’m sorry, I was—”

“Do you know how to use a crosswalk?” His voice was a low rumble.

“What?”

He swung around, and I forgot how to breathe. All I could do was stare.

Why, yes, Lydia. Jonathan Barnes is precisely as hot as his photos.

Hot was an understatement, really. The man was movie star good-looking, with wavy dark hair brushed back from a broad forehead. He looked like the sort of guy who lived in a suit and relaxed next to a fire with a scotch in his hand. A man’s man. Equal parts Don Draper and Henry Cavill. I didn’t have a protractor in my bag, but I was pretty confident his face satisfied the Golden Ratio—the mathematical formula for calculating perfect facial symmetry. His features were rugged without being rough, and everything seemed exactly as it was supposed to be. Perfect square jaw. Perfect aquiline nose. Perfect sensual lips. Perfect narrowed eyes glaring at me.

Record needle scratch.I realized my mouth was hanging open and quickly closed it.

He left the window and went to a big desk stacked with neat piles of paperwork. He stopped behind it and met my gaze with a piercing stare. “I asked you a question.”

He did? I licked my lips. “Um . . . I can’t—”

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