Page 8 of The Boss's Forbidden Assistant

‘Are you going to order me around all night, sir?’ she asked with a saccharine beating of her lashes, moving to the chair and pressing her hand to the back of it.

His eyes flicked to hers, hovering there, momentarily showing surprise, perhaps even uncertainty, before they shuttered any emotion from her view and he was once again impenetrable, impossible to read.

‘Please sit down,’ he amended with a casual shrug, so she bit back a smile and did as he’d said, pulling the chair back and taking her seat. But the table had been designed forone. Adding a second chair was one thing, but it didn’t create more leg room beneath it, so the moment he took his seat their ankles and knees brushed. Despite her good intentions, Harper flushed to the roots of her hair, her lips parting as they had last night, heavy with the need to be kissed.

Crap.

Did he feel it too? Or had last night been an aberration, a completely out-of-character moment of distraction that would never be repeated? For Harper, the way he’d looked at her had stirred something deep in her soul, embers of a flame she’d thought extinguished and which, now that it had roared to life, she had no idea how to bank down again.

She crossed one leg over the other, so she took up less physical space, but it was as though his bigger legs, spread wide, exuded a warmth all of their own. So, even though they no longer touched, she felt a static charge brushing her limbs, making it impossible to be aware of anything but him.

‘What did you want to talk about?’

‘Your work.’

Harper’s heart dropped to her toes. ‘Is there a problem?’

His frown was reflective. ‘Should there be?’

‘I—No.’ She shook her head and a clump of silky dark hair brushed over one shoulder. She sucked in a deep breath, remembering who she was, what she’d achieved, why she’d sailed to the top of every office she’d ever worked in, and forced a bright smile to her face. Harper had her mother’s megawatt-smile lips that were generous and wide, sculpted as if by angels, revealing straight, white teeth. A dimple was gouged in each of her cheeks. It was the kind of smile that invited trust and confidence.

‘Go on,’ she urged, folding her hands in her lap so she didn’t fidget.

‘Are you finding everything you need?’

Her brows drew closer together. ‘Yes.’

‘Because you haven’t asked for anything.’

‘No.’ Her frown deepened. ‘Isn’t that...wouldn’t you prefer that?’

‘So long as you are finding what you need, and not fudging your way through things.’

She lifted her eyes heavenwards before she could stop herself, earning a look from him that did funny things to her tummy. His expression darkened, showing disapproval or exasperation—she couldn’t tell—but there was something else. Something deep lay within the embers of his irises, something that made her smile drop and her heart go mad.

It was a look that spoke of speculation, of interest. Of the same desire that was thumping through her body, running rampant, begging to be indulged.

She reached for her water glass; it was empty. But a moment later Catarina appeared, brandishing a tray which she perched on the edge of the table so she could remove items, one by one: two wine glasses filled with red liquid, and a platter that overflowed with olives, bread, cheese, oil and some little croquettes.

‘That smells delicious,’ Harper complimented her honestly. Her stomach gave a rumble of agreement and she laughed awkwardly, pressing a hand to it, so it was the most natural thing in the world for Salvador’s eyes to drop lower, skating over the curves he’d stared at the night before, to what he could see of her flat stomach beneath the table.

Harper’s mouth went dry, her brain turning to mush. She stared at him helplessly, swimming against the current, trying desperately to hold onto common sense in the face of the most intense physical awareness she’d ever known. With Peter, it had been a slow burn. They’d worked together. He’d been smart and suave, and she’d trusted him. She’dlikedhim. But it had never felt as though every part of her had been struck by lightning. She’d never known anything quite like this before.

‘Mr da Rocha,’ she murmured, but the words came out breathy, made husky by her desire, so she scrunched up her eyes and tried again. But closing her eyes made her so much more aware of her surroundings: the sound of the forest, the night birds, the rolling, crashing waves, all so elemental and filled with passion; the smell of the tangy night air, the flowers. The island was so wonderfully fragrant and sensual that Harper’s skin lifted with goose bumps, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end.

‘Last night,’ he said after a beat, and she opened her eyes and stared at him, swallowing past a lump that had formed in her throat, ‘should not have happened.’

He was right, but it still hurt to hear him say that. ‘What happened?’ she asked unevenly.

His look was disparaging. ‘I didn’t intend to find you like that.’

Her eyes widened. ‘I know.’

‘I should have left immediately.’

‘It’s fine,’ she said with a shake of her head. Her body warmed in agreement. She reached for an olive—she was starving—lifting it to her lips and popping it in her mouth. A droplet of oil escaped, so she chased it down her chin with a finger, then stopped when his eyes followed the action with such intensity that she felt he was touching her.

‘You live in Chicago.’ It was an abrupt change of conversation and, though it hadn’t been a question, she nodded anyway.

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