Page 36 of Undercover Desires

“Okay,” she replies with a polite smile over her shoulder, her eyes not quite meeting mine.

I watch her as she gracefully walks back to the bar, then I return to my office, leaving the door open for her. She doesn’t keep me waiting long.

“You needed to see me?” she says as she steps through the door, her eyes scanning the room with a hint of hesitation. She seems different tonight.

“Close the door and take a seat, sugarplum,” I instruct, motioning to the couch.

She crosses one long, toned leg over the other, her eyes reflecting curiosity. I watch her closely, my gaze traveling over her, taking in every detail. She’s trying to maintain her confident demeanor, but I can discern the subtle tremble in her hands.

“How has your first week been?” I ask.

“It’s been good. The other girls are nice,” she replies nervously. I can tell she’s eager to leave. “Have I done something wrong?”

I narrow my gaze in on her. “I don’t know, have you?”

“Not… not that I know of,” she stutters out, her voice quiet.

“Do I make you nervous, Bella?”

“When you look at me like that, you do,” she admits.

I chuckle, appreciating the fact that she’s on edge around me. She should feel uneasy—after all, she’s a little lamb in the wolf’s den. Crossing the room, I pass by her, and she flinches at my proximity. I grab a decanter of scotch and two crystal tumblers, then return to my seat, positioned across from her.

“Drink?” I offer.

Bella hesitates. “I probably shouldn’t while I’m working.”

Pouring one for myself and another for her, I slide it across the coffee table toward her. “I’m asking you to; one won’t hurt,” I press, trying to coax her into enjoying a drink. She’s too good to pass up even a simple pleasure like this.

She collects the glass in her hands, considering me. She knows she has to say yes. Her fingers are long and slender, with nails painted a deep crimson. I get an image of them wrapped around my cock, stroking me. She takes a small sip, her tongue running over her bottom lip as she places the glass back down in front of her.

I meet her gaze again, and she blinks back at me. I’m eager to ask her the question burning in my mind, but I know I need to approach this strategically. Bluntly asking might make her shut down, and I won’t get to the bottom of what she’s doing here.

She drops her gaze, avoiding eye contact, and scans my office. Anywhere is better than looking into my intense eyes. It unnerves her, as it should. If she knew all the things I want to do to her, she’d probably run and never look back. Something on my desk catches her attention, and she hurries over to it, picking up a photo.

“Who’s this with you in the photo?” she asks, sounding a bit panicked.

“A friend of mine, Brandon Lewis. Do you know him?” I inquire, moving closer to her and leaning against my desk.

“No,” she replies, studying the image, her bottom lip trembling. She may not know Brandon, but she knows something.

I take the photo from her and place it back on my desk. “I grew up with him; he’s been my best friend since I was six. He lives in New York now with his girlfriend,” I tell her, hoping my revelation might encourage her to open up.

“Oh,” she simply responds, but there’s more brewing in that pretty little head of hers. I can see her processing what she just saw in the photo. She already knows me, so it must have something to do with Brandon.

“Why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?” I ask, not willing to let this slide.

“Do I? Oh,” she hesitates. “Your friend just looked familiar. Now that I’m up close, I can see he’s not who I thought he was.”

“Who did you think he was?” I press, needing more from her. I can tell she’s not being entirely truthful; her trembling hand gives her away. She’s clearly shaken up. “You have to answer me, babydoll,” I remind her.

Her eyes meet mine briefly, then she lowers her head. I can see the inner conflict; she’s not comfortable with deception, as she’s generally an honest person. There’s a story behind her bewildered expression, one I’m eager to hear.

My finger trails up her arm, caressing her bare skin until I reach her ponytail, which I gently tug to force her to look at me. She blinks back tears; something in that photo deeply affected her. She inhales sharply, trying to regain control of her emotions, but I refuse to release her. I need to know what’s going on.

“What did you see in that photo, Bella? Your body language tells me you’re hiding something. Tell me the truth,” I insist, on the verge of losing my patience.

Her composure returns. “You don’t know anything about me. There was nothing in that photo. Like I already said, it was a case of mistaken identity. Maybe I need to get my eyesight checked,” she retorts, attempting to push me away.

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