Page 15 of The Boss's Forbidden Assistant

‘Mr da Rocha...’ She groaned, aware in the tiniest part of her brain that was capable of speech how strange it was to address him so formally even as he gripped her breasts like this. But, hell, there was also something incredibly hot about it. God, how she needed him.

‘I want you,’ she said boldly. ‘I need you.’

She knew he felt the same. He was standing close enough to feel the evidence of that desire pressed hard against her belly. He could take her here and she wouldn’t care. Just so long as she got to feel him inside her. It had been too long since she’d been with a man—since Peter, that snake, her only lover—and suddenly she was desperate to erase him from her body, to take that privilege from him of having been the only man she’d made love to.

It was a fever pitch of need that overcame her, so she wasn’t aware of the way Salvador had straightened and was staring down at her, as if from a long way away or as if awakening from a dream.

He dropped his hands quickly, as if the flames inside her had leapt through the air and burned him—burned him and pained him.

‘You need to leave.’ The words were crisp, his voice rumbling as it rolled into the room. Harper stared at him, not understanding. It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense. She was still trembling with desire, playing with one hand behind her back because her mind wouldn’t cooperate. She had no idea what he meant.

‘You need to leave,’ he enunciated more clearly.

Her pulse was jerky for another reason now. Something strange was happening to her, a wave of nausea, anger and self-directed fury. She stared at him, trying to work out what had happened.

‘This cannot, will not, happen. Get the hell out of my office now, Harper.’ He glared at her with so much anger that she trembled. ‘Now.’ And then, closing his eyes, he dragged a hand through his hair. ‘Please.’

It was the last word that got through to her. Something else was going on, something serious. Something she didn’t understand. With legs that were barely strong enough to support her, she turned and ran, not bothering to button up her shirt, simply clutching it together and hoping like hell she didn’t run into any household staff on the way.

She didn’t—thank heavens for small mercies. In the sanctuary of her suite, she slammed the door shut and pressed her back against it while waiting to catch her breath and hoping, desperately, to erase the last stupid minutes from her life.

CHAPTER FIVE

GROWINGUPINthe suburbs of Rio de Janeiro had given Salvador a handy vocabulary of curse words and he employed each and every one now as he took the steps to the beach two at a time, running as if a demon were at his back.

He ran to escape—but there was no escape from what had just happened, from what would have happened if he hadn’t finally grabbed hold of himself. There was no escaping what he wanted, despite having come to his senses—some of them. But she’d been right there, so tantalisingly close, so perfect, so angelically beautiful and, heaven help him, he’d wanted to reach out and take her then and there against the glass walls of his office.

The image of that dragged a powerful groan from his chest. He ran until he reached the sand, hot and white, shimmering in the mid-afternoon sun. He stopped running, letting the heat flame his feet, the pain a worthy punishment for the dangerous game he’d willingly entered into and very nearly lost control of.Hell.

At the water’s edge, he stopped just long enough to remove his trousers so he could stride into the water, the feeling of it a balm against his skin, a necessary dousing of passion. He didn’t care about anything then, only this—only a need to come back to himself, to remember his life, his wife, the promise he’d made to himself when she’d died.

He pushed out deep into the ocean, his stride powerful, his legs kicking him away from his home until finally he could no longer stand. He turned onto his back a moment, staring up at the sky, wondering how many times he’d done this while his wife and friend had lain dying, withering into nothingness inside his home. He’d floated in the ocean like this and cursed the heavens, fate, had wished he could save her, begged to switch places with her, offered himself to God, as if it would have made a difference.

Nothing had.

Day by day, she’d grown weaker. He’d watched, held her hand. Had made her empty promises, offering platitudes they both knew to be fake, such as ‘You’ll be okay...you’ll beat this’. Her survival had become his personal quest, the most important thing to him—in those last few months, even more important than the business he’d built almost from scratch. He’d relied on Amanda then, on her professionalism and intellect, her compassion and understanding.

He floated in the water for a long time, staring up at the sky, remembering his wife, the baby they’d lost and the pain of that moment.

Ever since she’d died, he’d been here, single, alone... But not lonely, when Anna-Maria’s ghost was everywhere. So too the ghost of his own failure to save them both—his wife and their daughter.

Finally, when he’d ordered his thoughts and remembered his priorities, he swam to shore, his arms just as powerful on the way back, his purpose clear in his mind.

None of this was Harper Lawson’s fault and he owed her one hell of an apology.

Harper heard Salvador return but didn’t look up. She couldn’t. She was still mortified by what had happened, by how brazen she’d been. Only...she hadn’t really been, had she? He was the one who’d removed his shirt. But only aftershe’drun her hands all over his chest, practically begging him to take it further.

She closed her eyes on a bitter wave of regret, wondering what the hell had come over her, needing to understand how she’d been so possessed, so utterly mad. They’d both played their part. They’d both wanted... She was sure of it. Yes, she could remember the way he’d been. He’d wanted her too—just not enough.

‘Ms Lawson?’ His voice had her startling in her seat, the flames she’d thought embarrassment had extinguished kicking into gear.

‘Yes?’ She didn’t look up from her work. He crossed the office, smelling of the ocean. He’d changed—he wore a different shirt with no coffee stain, and a different pair of trousers too. His hair was wet, slicked back from his face. He’d been swimming, she guessed. Yes, there was sand at his temple, a smudge, wiped there without his realisation. Her fingertips ached to reach up and brush it away.

‘Can we talk?’ He stood beside her, arms crossed, imposing and so handsome.

She lifted her shoulders in a small shrug. ‘I suppose we should.’

He reached past her and flicked off her screen, demanding her full attention, so she turned slowly in her chair, lifting her face to his.

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