Page 5 of Heated
Good. God.
That can’t be right.
I asked her for an image of her soon-to-be-ex, so why is she showing me a picture of Apollo in a suit? Maybe she accidentally scrolled to a shot from some Greek-god-retelling movie casting instead of to her boyfriend. She never did tell me her profession. With her flawless features and tall slender figure, it makes sense she would be a model.
Yes, that explains it.
Why relief trickles through me at my conjured justification, I don’t know. Can’t explain. And don’t even try.
“This is Cyrus?” I ask, my voice somehow void of the “What tomfoolery is this?” swirling in my head and chest. But even I catch the waver of hope in my question. The hope that she’s mistaken. That she’ll glance at her phone’s screen, give me a littlemy badshrug, and then skim to the correct picture.
But no.
Impatience flickers across her face, there and gone before she does tip the phone back toward herself. And as she turns the screen back to me, my paradoxical duet of relief and hope dances off into the dark wings of a stage, gleefully waving their middle fingers at me.
“Yes, this is him,” she confirms, the irritation missing from her expression now tinting her voice.
Duly noted. Valerie Summers doesn’t appreciate being questioned.
I cling to that information, file it away, and even peer at her for a few additional moments longer than necessary. Even after she arches an eyebrow.
Shit.
I should be embarrassed. Should apologize. But I can’t do either. Because this is what desperation does to a woman. Turns her into a grasping-at-straws-and-whatever-else-kindling-happens-to-be-nearby kind of person.
All because I would give up my prized pair of Chloé baroque pearl drop earrings tonotlook at that picture again.
But my brain, as if flooded by dopamine by just that one glance, refuses to acknowledge any sense of self-preservation. The purely primitive, pleasure-driven side takes over and orders my eyes to feast, to gorge.
And that’s what I do.
I slide my hands to my lap, underneath my desk, and curl my fingers into my palms, the short, no-nonsense nails biting into the softer flesh. Deliberately, I trap my breath in my lungs, doling out small flat sips of air that still whistle through my head like whips of wind.
Yet ... I stare. And stare.
At a face that once upon a time would’ve been carved into marble and worshipped in a temple. Or pressed into a bronze coin. Or extolled in a tale that would be passed down from generation to generation to become myth.
A high, clean brow that speaks of intelligence and a hint of severity. Thick slashes of eyebrows that hide the shade of his eyes but not the intensity that seems to fairly burn from them. Cheekbones honed to such sharpness that just a mere brush across them would be capable of drawing a thin line of blood. Beneath my desk, I rub my thumb and forefinger together, already feeling the slight burn of that phantom slice.
An arrogant blade of a nose. Lean, sculpted cheeks. An indomitable, chiseled jaw that fairly screams a ruthless strength of will and stubbornness. And ...
A heated shiver undulates in my belly, attempting to work its way up through my body, but I stifle it. Totally inappropriate for a client to witness me shudder in unacceptable and—dammit—untimely lust over her man. True, soon-to-be ex-man. Still ... unacceptable.
But, God, there’s nothing I can do about what the lust is doing below my navel, though. Twisting into something snarled and tangled. Invisible fingers pluck at it, only further knotting the dirty, hot mess.
Because that mouth ...
To claim it’s the only soft feature about his face would be a fallacy. There’s nothing soft about those almost too-lush curves. No, that wide mouth carries a dark shade of cruelty around the edges, a twisted hint of sin that abolishes any romantic ideas of tenderness.
And goddamn, if that doesn’t turn the screw of need in my belly tighter, harder ...
Somehow, I tear my way-too-enraptured gaze away from the phone. Wow. It seems I’ve discovered my new superpower.
He’s a beautiful man. So what? Jamie Dornan is too. And if I remember correctly, I experienced the same “Ovaries, thou art loosed”reaction the first time his luscious ladder of abs flashed across Regal’s movie screen.
No big deal. A chemical response to a pretty face. That just happens to belong to the man who will soon be dumped by our company.
Reality pours over me colder and faster than any ice-bucket challenge.
