Page 3 of Seven Nights

I swivel and tilt my head to have a good look at his face. The attempt to stare him into better behavior fails because my eyelids decide it’s the perfect time to impersonate a hummingbird’s wings, my gaze rapidly darting and shuttering.

The reaction feels entirely foreign, like it’s some other woman looking at the world’s most eligible bachelor and swooning. I have seen him in pictures and on television, but his voice and appearance are different in person. The small, visible laugh lines around his mouth and eyes make him more human. His voice, set against the backdrop of his serene garden, has a tone too deeply familiar for my body to ignore.

I shake my head, swallowing before I answer so I won’t squeak. “I'm fine.”

“I'll judge for myself.”

Pressing one palm against the depression just above my bottom, he takes my hand and folds me into the back of the limo like he is storing some priceless antique. He dives in next to me, only coming to a stop once our bodies touch, his thick thigh running parallel to my slimmer one.

He nods at the driver waiting to close the door. “My case is by the pool, Philip.”

“Very good, sir.” The man shuts the door then walks a quick line to the garden and back, placing the briefcase in the front seat.

Straightening my skirt, I put a few inches of distance between me and my host. I give myself another second and a subtle, but calming, breath before I lift my head and smile.

“Really, Mr. Montgomery, I'm okay.”

Leaning forward, he opens the door to a small refrigerator. Taking a linen napkin, he dumps a handful of ice into its center as he watches me from the corner of one eye.

“It's a first name kind of company, Katelyn. You should have researched that.”

“I did.” I extend my hand, expecting him to give me the ice. “I was raised to start formal and wait for an invitation to use someone's first name.”

“Invitation extended. Slide over.” He speaks exactly like a man who expects immediate obedience, an attitude I strongly dislike. “You need to elevate that ankle.”

No genuinely quantifiable reason exists for me to refuse, but instinct and experience make me cautious. When I hesitate, he tilts his head. The slight flare of his nostrils indicates I am trying his patience. But I waste a few more precious seconds studying his expression.

I harbor no doubt he can stare down a charging bull. His gaze, when he looks at me, is laser focused and unblinking. His mouth puckers decisively, the set of his jaw such that the total impression is implacable. He just told me to move and I can read in the depth of his gaze that there will be consequences if I don’t.

Need flames across my skin, but the brush fire dies as quickly as it erupts. I slide along the seat, lifting my right leg. Catching it gently, he removes the pump and brings my heel to rest against his muscular thigh. His light touch and the heat emanating from him make the simple contact unexpectedly sensual.

I realize my gut wasn’t warning me about Montgomery, his overt familiarity or the conditions in the alley. It is my body’s own responses triggering the sirens that blare in my head. Feeling the creep of fresh heat across my cheeks, I glance at the raised partition separating the driver from where we sit. Thankfully, the man's attention is focused on the front of the car as he pulls from the alley onto the street.

Montgomery settles the ice pack across my ankle. “The glass is one way. Philip can’t see the way your leg is out.”

My body draws another inch tighter. I resist the impulse to look at Montgomery. I don’t want him to read anything more from my expression.

“Does it hurt much?” His hand curls along the back of my calf as the other hand keeps the chilly, makeshift compress in place. The fingers are warm against my skin, the tips surprisingly callused for a man who makes his money buying and selling entire industries.

Trying to relax so I don’t blow the interview before it actually begins, I concentrate on the cold penetrating my swollen ankle instead of the rough brush of his fingertips along the underside of my leg. My lower torso refuses the attempted distraction. My stomach clenches, my hips narrow as I tighten my thighs and glutes.

Damn, I shouldn't feel aroused and out of control.

Money and power don’t matter to me. The wolfish good looks don’t matter. I spent the last four years chasing down big charity donors. I have met so many men like Montgomery that I developed an immunity to them, most of it based on an active dislike of who they are at the core of their being.

But not today—not him.

“I asked if it hurts,” he reminds me.

I shrug, hoping he can’t read the effect he is producing in my body.

“I've hurt worse,” I answer.

“I remember,” he says. His hand brushes a familiar line up my shin. “You had a three-inch gash on your leg the last hundred meters of your trial. And you still finished first.”

This encounter keeps getting worse. I’ve had too many conversations on the topic of my Olympic trials with near strangers not to know what Montgomery is leading up to. Everyone thinks they deserve an explanation about why I dropped off Team USA after qualifying.

If I want him to hire me, I can’t exactly say it is none of his fucking business.

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