Page 11 of Her Dark Salvation

She hit the penthouse button. “Mr. DeVita tells me you’ll be with us for several weeks. There aren’t too many women at the executive level. Let’s do lunch or…” She arched a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Happy hour? If you’re into that?”

“Absolutely.”

“Fabulous.”

The elevator glided to a stop, and its doors opened into a wide, semi-circular foyer. Floor-to-ceiling windows provided an unobstructed view of the Commons below, the commotion of the streets silenced by some magical soundproofing. The only sound came from a sculpture of a nude woman trickling water from a jar into a shallow pool at her feet.

Behind her, the rounded wall was made of porous stone and reminded me of the ruins I’d visited on my last trip to Italy. It curved inward in a wide arc, connecting the windows to where we stood in front of the elevators.

Between the fountain and the windows was a set of double doors, cherry, inlaid with copper knobs, knockers, and a mail chute. A matching doorbell and intercom were set flush into the stone to their right. The entryway looked like something out of a tourism brochure for a luxury bed and breakfast.

On the opposite side of the statue, a matching cherry desk topped with a curved monitor, office phone, and ink blotter sat empty beneath silver letters mounted directly into the stone:DeVita Enterprises International. Beyond that, a single, nondescript office door with a stainless-steel handle appeared oddly mundane.

“Wait here,” Siobhán said. “I’ll let Mr. DeVita know you’ve arrived.” She knocked on the office door.

“Yes!” a deep voice boomed across the distance.

She opened the door enough to squeeze into the room while still holding the handle.

Nervous energy heated my chest, neck, and face despite the coolness of the foyer. I smoothed my sweaty palms down my skirt, dreading the inevitable clammy handshake.

But my self-doubt was no match for the excitement inspired by an actual office and the chance at a real-world application of my skills. Twenty years ago, I’d set my heart on working in corporate finance, and this was my chance. Nothing was going to prevent me from realizing my dream.

Siobhán ducked back into the foyer. “Mr. DeVita will see you now. I’ll be in the lobby when you’re finished.”

“Thank you,” I said even as a fresh wave of adrenaline had my stomach doing flips.

She grabbed my hand on her way to the elevator. “Girl,” she whispered and squeezed my fingers, “you look like you’re about to pass out. Breathe.” I let out a tremendous sigh, and she smiled with understanding. “Don’t worry. He doesn’t bite.” She winked and got on the elevator.

“Right.” I lifted my chin and strode into Mr. DeVita’s office with as much confidence as I could muster.

The office echoed the décor of the foyer but held the faint scent of cigar smoke and leather. To my right, a ceramic urn sat next to a leather recliner and a side table. To my left, a bookcase spanned the entire wall, and the small bar set in its middle was topped with crystal decanters and glassware. Straight ahead, two gladiators grappled in a Renaissance fresco under the soft illumination of track lights. And beneath their epic battle, a man around fifty sat behind a cherry desk staring intently at his computer screen while banging away at a keyboard.

I’d always had a type; my kryptonite took the form of tall, dark, and Italian. I thought I’d developed an immunity after multiple failed attempts at relationships with that make and model, but apparently, my antibodies were no match for Marco DeVita.

Thick, glossy waves of dark brown hair were threaded through with silver as fine as the lines of his pinstripe suit. He kept the sides and back cropped close and neat, matching the clean shave of his smooth, olive-toned skin. Like ancient marble come to life, the hard, chiseled lines of his jaw and cheekbones complimented the prominence of his Roman nose. His bearing demanded obedience, as if Caesar himself had been plucked from history and deposited into that office to rule from a high-backed, leather executive chair.

My sweaty palms redoubled their efforts in the presence of such devastating masculinity. I wiped them on my skirt and reminded myself why I was there—an opportunity to reshape my career. I focused on my breathing to slow my heart rate and realigned my thoughts. Now was not the time for lusty gawping.

“Dr. Barone.” Mr. DeVita’s deep baritone filled the space between us. “Have a seat.” The words were an order, not a request, and although he didn’t spare me as much as a glance, I knew he expected me to obey.

I sat in one of the two chairs opposite his desk and surreptitiously wiped the sweat from my palms by smoothing my skirt, but his eyes never left his screen. His left hand enveloped the mouse, making it look unnaturally small. No wedding band. Just a fat gold ring on his right pinky finger. My stomach flipped.

Get a grip, Anna.

He clicked the mouse with finality and turned to face me. Dark eyes widened slightly beneath thick eyebrows. Someone else might have missed the subtle sign of surprise, but I’d seen that look before. He’d been expecting a man.

“Dr. Barone. I’m Marco DeVita,” he said, not missing a beat. He made no move to rise, instead folding his hands on his desk and staring at me with unnerving intent. Eyes of the deepest brown met mine without hesitation and captivated me with the depth of their darkness.

“Anna,” I breathed. “Please.”

“Anna.” My name in his deep voice sounded sinful, and a shiver pebbled my skin. “Before we get into the details, I require a signed non-disclosure agreement. CMG has already agreed to this contract, but Mr. Levitt explained this is your first consulting assignment. He’s asked that I provide you with the right of refusal if the work doesn’t align with your career objectives. After you sign, I’ll explain the details, and you’ll have an opportunity to decline.”

“I have no problem with that. Jeff—excuse me—Mr. Levitt mentioned you’d require an NDA. I’ve signed them in the past, and I want to assure you I approach all working relationships with discretion. This will be no different.”

“Even so,” he said with dry skepticism, “I have rather particular requirements, and I expect thorough compliance.” He punctuated those final words as if I needed the extra clarity.

“I understand.”

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