Page 22 of Ruthless Mr. Ricco
“On the other side of the reception area is a full kitchen, the restrooms, and several private meeting rooms,” Mr.Brunswick says as his long strides carry him past the first two offices faster than I can read the placards.I rush to keep up with him without running.
I don’t need to read the sign beside the double doors at the far end of the hall; only the founder and CEO would dare claim the most pompous office in the building.
Mr.Brunswick walks past the third office and steps into a glass-enclosed alcove just before the CEO’s office.
“This is my desk,” Mr.Brunswick taps the end of his pen on the black surface in the center of the room before gesturing to the small table and chair pressed up against the glass wall.“That’s your workspace for now.”
I nod and step toward the table—which may be a humble set up but is better than a cubicle in the basement—but before I can set down my armload, the double doors open.
My stupid heart does a slow summersault as I meet Matteo’s hazel eyes.
My mind transports me back to high school.Time has only made him more enigmatic and appealing.His presence electrifies the room.
The dread in my stomach compounds at the coldness in his gaze.
High heels clack against the polished floor.Matteo turns the spotlight of his gaze away as Ms.Lynn addresses him.His countenance changes.Not much, but the softening around his eyes is enough to jar me into the present.
He gives his secretary his full attention.I swallow the jealousy rising in me and set my welcome packet on the table.
“Follow me, Ms.Simons,” Mr.Ricco demands.
With my briefcase in tow, I exit the glass room and stride through the double doors.
His office screams wealth with high-end furnishings and a panoramic view overlooking the cityscape.
He leads me to a fancy sitting area with plush love seats and armchairs surrounding a glass coffee table.
I take the couch across from him and study him as my boss and not the man I fantasized about all night long.His relaxed posture doesn’t match the cutthroat awareness in his eyes.I’d be stupid to underestimate him.
When he simply stares at me, I turn my attention to the table.No water.No papers.Not even a pen.
I pull my briefcase into my lap, extract the paperwork I prepared, and launch into the simple spiel I spent hours rehearsing in my head.
When he agrees to several of my addenda—which mostly clarify verbiage and slightly alter terms in my favor—without batting an eye, I push down the apprehension growing in me.Nothing is ever this easy, especially when it involves Matteo Ricco.
“Anything else?”he asks.
His unimpressed tone irks me, but I shove my frustration into a tiny box and lock the lid, refusing to break my professionalism.
“I am unavailable Saturday evenings from five to eight PM,” I say.
He leans forward, braces his elbows on his thighs, and rests his chin on his interlocked fingers as he studies me.
“No,” he says.
My hackles rise.Rage heats my blood.I inhale through my nose and hold my breath until my lungs ache.After a slow exhale, I force my lips into a smile and place my hands in my lap as I relax my shoulders.
“Yes.I have previous engagements I cannot cancel.”
“No.Cancel them.”
My jaw aches from clamping my teeth so hard, but I lift my chin and quirk a brow.
“I will not.My schedule is otherwise open, but Saturday evenings are off-limits.”
His lips lift in a wicked smirk.Arousal joins the anger in my veins and creates an addictive cocktail.
“Nothing of yours is off limits to me.You’re mine, Brook.”
