Page 2 of Craving Danger

I’ve worked with intimidating people in the past, but Mr. Vitale overshadows them all.

The first time I laid eyes on him, I was struck speechless by how handsome he was, but the attraction died a quick death after I watched one PA after another leave the building in tears.

As the printer spits out the last page, his dark gaze remains locked on me while he swipes the contract from the traitorous machine.

His tone is low and filled with a world of warning as he mutters, “If you can’t do something as simple as printing a document, we’re going to have a problem, Miss Blakely.”

I suck in a deep breath as I watch him stalk back to his office, and the moment the door shuts behind him, I glare at the printer. “Sure, for him, you’ll print.”

“What’s the problem?” Andy, one of the IT guys, asks from behind me.

With a tired sigh, I set the now spare copy of the contract down on my desk and gesture at the machine. “It won’t print for me. I’ve checked everything, but it keeps giving me error messages. It printed for Mr. Vitale, though.”

“Let me take a quick look.”

Andy takes a seat at my desk, and after typing for less than a minute, the stupid machine starts printing.

“I’ve reinstalled the printer, so you shouldn’t have a problem again.”

“Thank you.” I gather the document and shred it, seeing as it’s no longer needed.

“You’re welcome.”

As Andy walks away, my phone starts to ring, and I quickly pick up the earpiece. “Yes, Sir?”

“Get Mr. Castro on the line,” Mr. Vitale orders before hanging up.

Taking a seat in my chair, I dial Mr. Castro’s number. The call goes through to voicemail, and as I leave a quick message, the ache in my shoulders intensifies from all the tension.

Checking the time, I notice it’s just turned five o’clock.

Thank God.

I quickly dial Mr. Vitale’s extension.

“Hm,” he answers.

“Mr. Castro wasn’t available. I left a message for him to return your call.”

“Hm.” The line goes dead, and I suck in a deep breath of air.

My boss has zero manners, and it aggravates me to no end.

Redialing his extension, I wait for him to answer with his usual grunt before I say, “It’s five o’clock, sir. I’m going home. Have a good night.”

Before he can grunt, I put the earpiece down, feeling a little burst of triumph for getting to hang up on him first.

I switch off my computer and gather my handbag from the bottom drawer where I keep it, but as I rise from my chair, Mr. Vitale’s door swings open, and he barks, “My office. Now.”

God. What now?

I place my handbag on my desk, and with tension coiling in my stomach, I head into the office, otherwise referred to by me as the chamber of wrath.

Mr. Vitale stands in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan. He looks like a god, and his dress shirt and vest span tightly across his broad shoulders.

At the most random times, I’m struck with thoughts of how handsome the man is, but then he opens his mouth, and the unwelcome attraction disappears.

When he remains silent, I ask, “Sir?”

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