Page 11 of Unbuttoning Her Brooding Boss

He loosened his tie. Then thought better of it and took it off entirely, lying it on top of his jacket. Then he undid the top two buttons of his shirt, undid the cufflinks and rolled his sleeves to just below his elbows.

‘Do you mind?’ he asked as he worked.

‘Of course not.’

But not even the make-up could mask her blush now.

So he wasn’t the only one feeling it.

He knew that. Knew there was no way she wasn’t feeling the electricity arcing between them.

His phone beeped again. Sighing, he twisted to retrieve it from his jacket pocket and glanced at the screen to read the message. His private investigator had gone all efficient and diarised their meeting for him.

Reading it in black and white, he felt his lungs tighten. As did every one of his muscles. Anxiety returned in an unexpected tsunami. He gritted his teeth. He’d travelled the world over—going into war zones, danger zones, crossing arid deserts and ice floes. But he’d never felt as freaked out as he had when he’d taken that call ten minutes ago. As he did now.

But he’d been waiting over twenty years for this meeting—what was another forty-eight hours?

Torture.That was what it was. Pure, poisonous torture.

And hell, yes, he wanted to run away for the duration.

He needed time to speed up. Needed something else to think about for the next day or two or he was going to go insane.

Unable to help himself, he looked at her again and drank in the sight of her strawberry blonde hair, so intricately curled and coiled against her head, and her flawless pale complexion. Her eyes were bright, her lips glossy, and her petite figure was shown off to perfection in that pressed mint-green dress.

She didn’t look exactly like the profile picture on her blog. She looked better. It was the spark in her eyes. Not the make-up and the ‘look-but-don’t-touch’ dress, but the underlying attitude. That hint of something more dangerous within her—the certainty that she was keeping part of herself back.

He found her as irritating and as attractive as hell.

Yeah, he’d do anything to avoid thinking about that meeting. Absolutely anything. Andeverything.

He’d bite through those layers of rich, sweet icing. There was definitely more substance—more cake—than he’d first thought. And hedidlike cake.

But it wasn’t all about him. He wanted to see her fall into it—fall apart. He wanted to watch her eyes glaze and her cheeks redden without the aid or the mask of make-up. He wanted to see her sweaty and wet and flushed and laughing. And then crying her release. He wanted her mindless and begging to be tipped over the edge. He wanted to be the one to make her.

Soinappropriate. Borderline insane. Sexual harassment stuff.

Hehadto rein it in.

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t had sex in years. He enjoyed holiday affairs with women who didn’t know who he was. When they found out he moved on. They were a short escape from his real world.

He wanted to escapenow.He wanted to scoop her up and toss her into the nearest swimming pool so he could see her clearly. He wanted to see herwet.

The urge to provoke her was irresistible. The urge to touch her he was restraining.Just.

Because he hadn’t lied. Jack Wolfewasn’tlike his playboy brother George. Or his bona fide hero James.

Truth was, they weren’t related at all. Andtherewas the cause of the ache. He was no Wolfe.

‘Are you going to answer that?’ she asked, her soft voice rasping.

His phone was ringing.

She watched him. No expression creased that immaculately painted face. But in her eyes all was emotion—all concern.

He hated it. He wanted nothing but that heat again.

He forced himself to tear his attention away from her. Glancing down, he read his brother’s name on the screen.

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