Page 15 of Fierce

I sighed. “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you. Go away. I have work to do.”

The next interruption came two hours later, after I’d turned in the schedule and was waiting to hear if I’d passed, unable to fret too much about it, as it would be almost the last thing I’d do for Te Mana.

“Hey, Hope.”

I swiveled to find Danny, one of the mail guys, outside my cube. “Hey yourself.”

He handed me a package in a giant interoffice envelope. Way too big to be a pink slip. “Got something for you. Looks like something good.”

The second he was gone, I was opening it.

A box. I pulled it out, lifted the lid, and found…shoes.

Shoes?

A pair of black pumps like mine, in the same ridiculously hard-to-find small size as mine. Five and a half. And yet nothing at all like mine. As different from mine as an Italian greyhound from a pit bull.

I didn’t have to look at the label to know. Jimmy Choo. A beautifully pointed toe, the sides gracefully cut away, and a three-inch heel I could actually walk in. And, best of all, the gorgeous texture. Strands of glistening metallic leather laced through rich black in the subtlest of chevrons.

I craved them. I lusted after them. And I knew I couldn’t have them.

There was a note in the box.

You could call it an apology.

I was still looking at them, resisting the urge to put them on, when the phone rang. I glanced at the display. Another unfamiliar internal extension. I picked up. “Hope Sinclair.”

That melted-chocolate voice. “Or you could call it an invitation.”

I sucked in a breath. “I’m not—” I cleared my throat. “I’m not for sale.”

“Got that, didn’t I. How do they look?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t tried them on.”

“Shall I come down and put them on you?”

“No!” The word came out with a little too much force, and I lowered my voice and hissed, “No. I can’t—” I was nearly whispering now. “Hemi. I can’t accept these.”

“No? Not even if I said the words?”

“What—what words?”

“Those little words every woman longs to hear. The ones I’ve never said.”

I held the receiver out and stared at it, then put it back to my ear. “That’s crazy. You don’t love me. You barely know me. I’m not sure you even like me.”

His rich voice was full of amusement now. “The words I had in mind were, ‘I’m sorry.’ I’ll have a better idea about the…liking,” he went on, the word a caress, “once we have dinner together. And, yes, I’m asking, not telling. Saturday night.”

“Do you still want to, uh…”

“Yes. I still want to. Fair warning.”

It was more than a shiver. The pulsing throb was right there, and the man had barely touched me. “Well,” I said weakly, “at least you’re up-front about it.”

“Oh, you’re going to find that I’m very, very up-front. I’m going to tell you exactly what I want. And I’m going to require your…answer.”

Oh, man. I was so out of my depth. I shifted in my chair and felt the warmth increase. Just the sound of his voice had me aroused almost beyond bearing. I couldn’t see him again. I couldn’t touch him again. I had a sudden sense-memory of his hands around my ankles, and I swallowed. “I already gave you my answer.”

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