Page 8 of Fierce

“Oh,” he said softly, “I find it is. So often. If you need it badly enough.”

I caught my breath, the sound audible in the silent space, and he wasn’t smiling now. His gaze was dark. Fierce.

“Um…” I managed to say. “Can I…do something for you?”

He looked like he was going to answer, and then caught himself. “Came by to have a word,” he said after a moment, glancing at Martine’s door. “Gone?”

“Um…yes. To the opera,” I added lamely.

“Ah.” The faint hint of a smile again. “The opera. But then, it’s late. Isn’t it? It must be. There’s nobody here.”

I looked at him in surprise. “Well, yes. It happens to be night. It happens to be…” I looked at my computer. “Eight.”

“Does it?” He rubbed the back of his dark, close-cropped head, and I noticed again how perfectly cut his hair was, the sharpness of the line of it against the planes of his face, the back of his strong neck. “Time flies, I reckon.” He looked at me more sharply. “So why are you still here?”

“I have a lot of work. I’m new.”

“Yes. You are. Hard work?”

“Just a lot of work. But, of course, I’m happy to do it,” I hastened to say.

“Mm. You’ll be with us in Paris soon, eh. May be as much work, but better surroundings.”

Did he know everything? “I—” I began, then stopped and got hold of myself. You are as good as he is, I reminded myself. He may have more money and more power. All right, he may have a boatload more money and power. But he’s not any more of a person than you are.

“I’m afraid it’s…difficult,” I went on, once I was able to speak more calmly. “The possibility of travel wasn’t mentioned when I took the job, and I have obligations that don’t allow me to leave town at such short notice.”

“What obligations?” He was frowning now, his expression hardening. “I didn’t think you were married, or that you had children.”

“That’s because,” I said, striving for poise and trembling inside at what I was saying, “those kinds of questions aren’t allowed. In an interview, on an application, or anywhere.”

There was banked fire in the deep brown eyes now. “You’re telling me that I’m not allowed to ask you personal questions.” His voice was soft, but the intent behind it was anything but.

“Not unless they relate to my work.” I was shaking, but that didn’t matter. I couldn’t stand to lose this job, but I couldn’t let him run me over, either. Holding my ankles, and now this?

Vincent had wanted fringe benefits, too. That was probably why he’d hated me so much. Because I’d said no. Because I always said no. But that was men. If you looked like I used to, they ignored you. If you looked like I did now, they wanted to…we’ll call it “use you,” just to be polite. And the odd thing was, the more you said no, the more they wanted it. Like it was a game. There was a reason they called it “scoring.”

Which was why it had never been all that hard to say no. Until now. But the fact that Hemi wasn’t Vincent, that my treacherous body insisted on responding to all that hard masculinity, didn’t change a thing. Or rather, it did. It made me more certain than ever that “no” was the way to go.

I waited for endless seconds while he held me with his eyes, willing myself not to drop my gaze. And then, to my shock, he laughed.

“I can see I’ve underestimated you,” he said. “We’ll try it another way, then. I’ll ask you, how can we accommodate you so you can come on this trip? I’d like you to be there. Let’s make it happen.”

I smiled tentatively back, and there was that warmth again in the brown eyes that met mine. So hard to keep that “no” in mind if he was going to laugh, and smile, and look like…that. So very hard.

“I have a sister,” I told him. “She’s fifteen. I’m her guardian.”

I could see something in his face now. Was it…relief? “Then let’s get her looked after so you can come on this trip and look after me. Look after my interests, that is,” he added smoothly. “And meanwhile…have you eaten?”

“Um…no. I have this work.”

“Right. The work.” He frowned again. “How much of it?”

“A half hour.” What was he asking me?

“Then I’ll come back down here at eight-thirty. Take you to dinner, then take you home. It’s too late for somebody as small as you to be out on the streets alone.”

“I’m here doing my job. For you,” I said, and then snapped my mouth shut in horror. “Sorry. I mean, no, thank you, that’s not necessary. And I can look after myself.”

“Oh?” His tone was silky. “How?”

“I have…pepper spray?” Don’t end with a question mark, I reminded myself furiously. Lean in. But how were you supposed to lean in when six-foot-three of gorgeous Maori muscle was leaning over you? “I have pepper spray,” I said more firmly. “I do this all the time. This is my life.”

“Not tonight, it’s not. I’m going to need some details if I’m going to work out how to get you to Paris. And I’m a very busy man. I have exactly a one-and-a-half-hour window for this, and it starts at eight-thirty.”

He leaned forward suddenly and put a hand on either arm of my swivel chair, his pant legs brushing my knees, his face a foot from mine.

“Be ready,” he said softly. And he left.

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