Page 43 of Masked Seduction
But the real itch in my skull is whether or not she’s connected the dots back to me yet.
Sometimes I can see it in her eyes, like she’s replaying Friday night in her head, thinking about the word I spoke in Russian against her throat, and trying—heroically—to stay professional anyway.
Sooner or later I’m going to slip, and the whole truth will land in her lap, along with everything that comes with belonging to a man like me.
The thought settles low and heavy.
I set my pen down and lean back in the chair. My gaze drifts to the door, picturing her purposeful stride, heels tapping out a rhythm that makes every man in the corridor glance up.
I’m supposed to be running a multi-billion-dollar empire. Preparing for a potential war with the Agostis. Instead, I’m sitting in the quiet aftermath of a meeting, wondering what color panties my assistant is wearing. Wondering if she ever thinksof me the way I think of her—dark and obsessive—against her better judgment.
I close my eyes and see her face again, flushed and gasping, mouth parted, eyes begging for more.
I tell myself it doesn’t matter.
But that’s a lie and I know it.
CHAPTER 15
JENNA
A few minutes earlier…
Iwatch him from behind the glass partition. Abram stands near the elevator, tall and composed, shaking hands with his brothers-in-law. The exchange is respectful; clearly they’re fond of one another. It’s a side of himself he keeps buried under that polished armor of his.
As soon as the elevator doors close, it’s gone. His posture changes. His face resets into the expressionless mask I’m accustomed to. When he turns, those ice-blue eyes sweep across the floor, landing on me like a spotlight.
He heads back into the conference room. Minutes tick by. The office is still technically closed; no one else has arrived yet. It’s just the two of us.
I start toward my office, eager to get a jump on the day. But I barely have a chance to turn on my computer before my intercom chimes.
“My office. Now.”
My stomach twists. He sounds pissed. Did I do something wrong?
I force my face into a neutral expression as I approach his office. He holds the door for me but says nothing. I walk past him, heart thudding against my ribs. No thanks for the coffee. No mention of the breakfast I arranged. Of course not. What was I expecting, a gold star?
He shuts the door behind us.
I brace myself for a reprimand, but it doesn’t come.
Instead, he walks past me, circles around, and sits—not behind his desk, but on the corner of it. Close to where I’m standing. Very close. His cologne curls into my lungs—dark, musky, expensive.
My mouth goes dry.
“We need to arrange a meeting with the Agostis,” he says. “It has to be handled a certain way. No mistakes.”
I nod, trying to focus, but his proximity is making that nearly impossible.
“You’ll reach out to Nico Agosti first,” he continues, his gaze fixed on me. “But make it clear the invitation is for both him and his father. It’s a sign of respect. We don’t acknowledge the son without including the father.”
“Got it,” I manage.
He shifts slightly, leaning forward just enough to crowd my space. My breath catches.
“The location should be neutral but not impersonal. A space that suggests we’re open to diplomacy but still hold the upper hand. I’ll send you a list of acceptable venues.”
“Understood.”
