Page 23 of Seducing Hope (The Hope Legacy)

He interrupts, “Is that because it is in the order of the acronym SWOT?” Taking a deep, steadying breath, I attempt to push down the growl working its way up my throat. It fails. He turns, eyebrows raised. I smile—that’s right, I bite, too. I sit on my hands to prevent myself from strangling him.

“As I was saying, I have a list of what I consider to be some of the strengths and weaknesses.” I narrow my eyes, daring him to question my IQ further. When he doesn’t, I reach for my handbag on the floor. Flustered, I bend too quickly to pick up the bag and lose my balance, starting to topple off the stool.

Out of nowhere, Archan grabs me around the waist, pulling my back against his front. How did he get there so quickly?

Warmth radiates down my back, and I become hyperaware of his hands resting just below my breasts. He brushes a stray hair from my neck, and I look up at him. Bad idea—his mouth is inches from mine. He studies my lips and gives me a crooked grin; my breath hitches, pushing my abdomen tighter against his hands.

“The list?” he questions, his voice husky.

“Oh, of course.”Get it together, Natia. Releasing me, he scoops up my bag and places it on my lap. I pull out the handwritten list Aaden and I made last night and hand it to him.

He puts it on the breakfast bar. “We can talk about it while we eat.”

Handing me a plate with cutlery, he sits next to me with his own food. I scrape off the cheesy top layer while he reads my notes.

“You have some good key points…” He sounds surprised.

“Thank you, I try.”

Cheesy layer finished, I begin to deconstruct the omelet, separating out the ham, onions, and peppers.

“Do you have an example of this?” he asks.

I lean over his shoulder, and he points to where I’ve written about the companies having conflicting departments in some areas of the business. Well shit, there’s only one I can think of.

I tilt my head as if in contemplation. “The weapons department at Waterford Industries and the humanitarian department at Grant Ltd.”

After studying the small pile of green peppers I’ve successfully separated—he makes anexcellentomelet—I look back to him, waiting for the next question.

He stares at my plate. “Do you like green peppers?”

“Yes.” Popping a forkful of them in my mouth, I hum in appreciation. The seasoning is fantastic, and the peppers have just the right amount of crunch. He’s made my coffee with the perfect amount of cream and sugar, too.

My mouth fails to consult my brain before I say, “This is wonderful. You can cook me breakfast anytime.” I then give myself a well-deserved mental slap.

A wicked grin spreads across his face. “No problem. I should get to call you Natia, though, if we are getting that personal.”

I start Queen’s “Under Pressure.” He flicks his gaze to my plate, as if trying to figure something out.

“How could you turn this weakness into an opportunity?”

“Waterford needs to be transparent with who they supply weapons to, making sure they liaise with Grant Ltd.’s humanitarian team to ensure their philosophies match. We could use the press to show we’re arming the correct people.” Peppers and onions now eaten, I start on the egg.

“Is it possible to be transparent about everything the weapons department is doing?” he asks.

A forkful of egg pauses halfway between the plate and my mouth. Alarm bells ring in my head. What’s the probability he’s focused on the one department Waterford Industries can’t be transparent on?

I feign confusion. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason. You’ll be fine today.”

He stands and puts his dishes in the sink. “I am sorry to leave you before you have finished eating, but I need to get ready if we are going to be on time for the meeting. There is more coffee in the pot—help yourself.” He strides up the stairs to what I presume is the bedroom.

Rummaging through my bag for the memory stick, I eye the double doors.Please let it be his office. Approaching the walls and feigning interest in the art, I edge along until I’m in front of the doors. I glance at the cameras, making sure they’re in the correct position, before putting my hand on the door handle.

Please don’t squeak, please don’t squeak.

Pushing open one of the doors a crack, I peer in and breathe a sigh of relief when I see his computer on his desk. I glance at the stairs and strain my hearing. Faint footsteps sound above my head; he’s on the opposite side of the apartment, away from the stairs. I dart into his office and plug the memory stick into his computer, and the white light starts flashing. A bead of sweat tickles the back of my neck. I’m hyperaware of every noise as I take in the numerous artifacts in the display cabinets.Is that a diamond crown?

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