Page 23 of Café Diablo

“You wish,” Judy sasses back, which is true, that case is kicking my ass, which of course means, I love it. “I’ll just send her in. This is definitely a delivery you want.”

“Fine.” I release my finger from the button and go back to twirling my pen and clicking it, turning to the next page on the deposition. Did Judy say she’d sendherin? I click the back of my pen several more times, telling myself it’s sexist to think all delivery people are men. And what kind of delivery can’t be left with Judy in the front office?

A quiet knock plays against my door and I look up as the doorknob turns and the answer walks right into my office.

Olivia Reese.

Oh.

All of my skin tightens as she smiles softly at me, looking like a god-damn angel. She’s no longer wearing the sexy power-woman attire from the party, instead, she’s wrapped in something softer and more delicate. It’s a ruffled sundress in a royal blue color that makes her skin look copper-toned and sun-kissed. The fabric ties loosely at her waist, showing off her figure, the dress covered in California poppies or gold flowers in what one might consider a ‘Hawaiian T-shirt’ pattern. Only, this dress is a hundred times classier than the cheap cotton sarongs they sell on the boardwalks, or maybe it’s just Olivia that makes it seem fancier.

I’m sure she could make a paper bag look like high fashion if she wanted.

None the less, it’s casual and sexy, like she’s going to spend the day barefoot on the beach with her head tipped to the side as she searches for seashells, inevitably letting one of those tiny spaghetti straps (that show off her shoulders and freckles) fall down her arm, allowing me to gaze that expanse of skin beneath her neck.

My mouth goes dry and I practically drop my pen, blinking quickly to make sure it actually is Olivia, which—it is.

Only, that doesn’t explain what she’s doing in my office looking wind-swept and fresh, like she’s ready for us to take a jaunt to the quieter side of the island and find a secluded beach to go skinny dipping in.

I cough. Inappropriate. I’m not allowed to think these things.

Not that my cock is listening—he’s more than excited about who just walked in the door.

“Olivia?” I practically growl at her, shifting uncomfortably in my seat as she shuts my door behind her, once again reminding me how good she looks from all sides. Everything in my office is sleek and masculine—metal, wood, glass—modern and impeccably crafted. Olivia, on the other hand, is a wicked flower of softness that I’ve spent the last week trying to avoid conjuring up in my mind—she just doesn’t fit in my life. All that femininity and exuberance doesn’t make sense next to all this stainless-steel order and sharpness. And yet, the woman in front of me has me twisted up in every direction like I’m a damn teenager jacked up on hormones.

“I come bearing pastries,” she says with a sparkle in her brown eyes. “Not handcuffs!” she clarifies, a flirty curl to her lip as she holds up a black pastry box as evidence.

“You expect me to believe that isn’t full of whips and chains and all manner of handcuff related accoutrements?” I ask, as she walks across my stark office toward my desk. Her pink lips split into an amused smile that strikes me as embarrassed, but she’s trying to hide it.

“Wow,” she says, laying on the sarcasm as she puts the box on my desk. “You have quite the impression of me from that one little handcuff incident.”

“You can be … surprising,” I say, and her eyes flick up to mine.

Surprising that she’s in my office.

Surprising that she kidnapped me.

Surprising that she—

The room is suddenly a chamber cooker, hot and stuffy, with the sun searing my dark suit from behind and those eyes of hers catching me on fire. She knows exactly what I meant by that comment.

“Well, this is decidedly more innocent,” she says demurely, leaning forward to unhook the flaps of the box with her nimble fingers. Her tone and posture are soft, as if she’s trying to cut the heat that just flared between us, but I’m not buying her act for a second.

“I’m sure nothing in that box is innocent,” I grumble, as she peels the lid back. “Especially, since I’m certain it’s from Flambé, the vortex of sin and debauchery.”

“I work there, you know,” Olivia defends, and I raise an eyebrow.

“And that’s supposed to change my opinion?”

Olivia’s eyes cut to mine again, looking at me through her dark lashes. A soft flush runs up her neck and it makes my pants tighten. I know we were both drunk that night and none of my comments are really fair, but despite that flush in her skin, Olivia seems to settle into the sultry look she’s giving me like I’d better get used to Flambé’spenchant for naughty escapades.

“I’d say innocent until proven guilty to you,” she says with a slight tease. “But you’re the lawyer and I’m pretty sure you already have a trove of evidence you’d hold against me.”

Handcuffs.

Hand on my thigh.

Hand between her legs.

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