Page 4 of The Unplanned Wedding

She pats my shoulder, then nods in the direction of my boss’ office. “Best not keep him waiting, dear.”

She returns to her desk.

I reach the kitchen and find a complicated coffee machine. Thanks to my stint as a barista, I have a double espresso ready in a matter of minutes. I retrace my steps to The Beast’s office, taking care not to spill the coffee. When I pass Mary’s desk on the way back, she’s not there.

I head for my boss’ office, then draw in a breath. This is it. Showtime. I tuck stray strands of hair behind my ear, square my shoulders, then knock on the door.

I wait for a few seconds, but there’s no answer. I knock again. The seconds stretch further.Should I wait?The coffee will get cold, and he specified it must be hot.Fine, fine.I need to get this over with. Need to find my mettle. Need to chin up and face the music. He’sonlya man. I square my shoulders, push open the door and step in, only to find the place is empty.Hmm.

The room is huge, like three times the size of my apartment, and has floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside, it’s raining. It’s only eleven a.m., but thanks to the low hanging clouds, it’s gray outside. No surprise in London.

I take a step forward and that’s when the scent of rich tobacco and leather, and something deeper—sandalwood? —pours over me. I take a deep breath, and little fires seem to light up my spine. It’s a very masculine smell. Something very male. Something primal which resonates with a need deep inside me. I squeeze my fingers around the handle of the cup I’m holding and glance about the space.

There’s a massive desk set in front of a glass wall, with a view of the Thames. We’re on the fortieth story of the Davenport tower, and I can seeon the opposite bank the dome of St. Paul’s, with the Millennium bridge suspended over the river the foreground.

On the wall opposite the windows, there’s a bank of six televisions. Each one shows a different news channel. Facing it is a couch and armchairs with a coffee table in front. To my right is another sitting area, this one facing an unlit fireplace.

The lights are dimmed, so the space crawls with shadows. A gust of wind rattles against one of the walls, I shiver. The hair on the back of my neck rises, and I realize I’m not alone. My attention is drawn to the other side of the room.

There, in the corner, in the space between two windows, shrouded in shadows, is the unmistakable outline of a man. I gasp and strain through the dim light, trying to make out his features.

His face is in darkness, but there’s just enough light to pick out the shape of his shoulders, which are broad enough to stretch his suit. The sleeves are tight around his biceps, and his jacket pulls across his chest. He’s standing with one hand thrust in his pocket, the other at his side. His pants and his jacket are black enough to meld with his surroundings, and he’s wearing a shirt, which is also black. I can tell that his black tie is made of silk because of the light that reflects off it. Then he takes a step forward.

The light from the window falls over his eyes, blue like the waves that crest a stormy sea. He stares, unblinking, and I feel like I’m at the start of a rollercoaster, at the very top of that first long drop when my stomach clenches in anticipation, my guts churn, and every part of me dreads what’s to come—but also looks forward to hurtling down to the inevitable bottom. I swallow, and the sound of my pulse fills my ears.

He takes another step in my direction. The ceiling light illuminates his features, and I forget to breathe.

High cheekbones, a hooked patrician nose, a thin, firm upper lip that promises he’s not someone to be messed with. And that puffy lower lip which is ridiculously sensuous. The square jaw, which is so perfect it makes me want to weep. But it’s the scar that stretches from the tip of the left side of his lips to the edge of his eye which focuses my attention. It slashes across his cheek like someone dragged a blade in exactly the perfect symmetry to bisect the expanse.

The shriveled, uneven surface of the scar hints at the likelihood that itwas stitched by someone who wasn’t a doctor… Suddenly, I know he did it himself. That he bore the pain without a single groan. That he didn’t even have the benefit of a mirror and had to hold the edges of the torn skin together as he made do with whatever he could find to sew himself up. And I know it must have hurt so much, but that he didn’t complain.

Whatever happened to cause that wound must have been life-threatening. It’s probably a miracle he’s standing here. The thought of this big, virile male almost dying causes the blood to drain from my face.

He’s notanyman. He’s a larger-than-life, lethal, predatory male, who’s almost otherworldly in how he’s able to hold himself preternaturally still. Every muscle seems to be carved out of stone. The tension that rolls off of him weighs the air and sparks it with electricity. My nerve-endings tingle. I try to take a breath, and my lungs burn. It’s as if he’s sucked all the oxygen out of the room and replaced it with an explosive mixture that’s sure to corrode me from the inside out.

I don’t know why that HR lady thinks his face is hideous, or why his previous assistants couldn’t stand the sight of him, for this man is not repellant or scary to look at.He is freakin’ gorgeous.

Sure, his face is scarred, but that only adds to his appeal. It brings to mind images of pirates who went to sea and came back having vanquished their enemies.It makes me want to find out how he was wounded. It makes me want to kiss that puckered skin on his face and soothe any lingering memories he may have from being hurt. It makes me want to lick up that furrow on his cheek and taste him, and—Heat flushes my skin. My toes curl.

Whoa, I need to stop that train of thought. This is my boss. I'm his employee. I have no business thinking of him in such an inappropriate manner.

Whatever he sees on my features causes his face to close even more. A nerve ticks at his jaw. "Place the coffee on the desk," he rumbles.

That same rich, dark voice I heard over the phone rolls over me like a tsunami of decadence. My mouth dries. My stomach trembles. All the moisture in my body seems to have arrowed toward that secret part of me deep inside my core. I swallow, continuing to stare in his direction.

"Do it," he snaps.

Instantly, I’m moving. My feet don’t seem to touch the ground. I reach his desk, round it, and place the cup of coffee in the space in front of hischair. I straighten and glance in his direction. "I’m your new assistant June Don?—"

"Get out."

"What?" My jaw drops.

"Leave, and don’t return unless I ask you to."

My heart slams into my ribcage. For some ridiculous reason, I want to cry. I don’t know this guy, haven’t done anything to elicit this kind of reaction from him, so why is he being so rude? I open my mouth, but he throws up his hand. "If you don’t like the job, you can leave that, too."

There’s something in his voice that implies he expects me to do just that. In fact, I have a sneaking suspicion that’s why he’s being so rude. What a jerk. Not that I plan on quitting. Not when I just got this job. And the money? Ineedthat money. So no, I’m not going anywhere.

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