“And I didn’t expect you to be here.”

He digested my words for a second and then released a low laugh that reverberated through me. He nodded to the black Viper parked behind where I stood. “Get in, Lizzie.”

“You could ask me. I get enough commands from your mother throughout the day.”

He stepped closer. “Please, get in the car, Lizzie, before I kiss the fuck out of you right here.”

Piqued, I was already breathing heavily well before my back touched the black leather seat in his Viper. He didn’t give me an opportunity to catch it because as soon as both our doors were securely closed, he leaned over the narrow center console and pressed his face close to mine.

“I can’t do patience to save my life,” he growled, the sweet, cinnamon scent of his gum fanning my face. “I had no intentions of seeing you until you came to me, and yet here we are.”

“How did you know I’d be here?”

“Easton.” He let out a low noise when I ran the backs of my fingers over the end of his red tie. “You shouldn’t do that.”

“So I was right?” I moved my hand a little higher, the silky fabric combined with feeling the hard muscles beneath his shirt sending a trail of goose bumps up my arm. “You have him digging into my stuff too?” I couldn’t deny the waver of nervousness in my voice at the thought of him prying too deeply.

That was a toxic recipe for disaster.

“As much as I’d love to know everything about you, no. You don’t have to worry about that happening,” he answered. “But when he was erasing Margaret’s sent box, he saw an email from her to you, threatening you about making Monday happen.”

“And you intervened. You’re the reason Natalie met with me this morning?”

“Guilty.”

I was impressed. Impressed, grateful, and curious. What did he have to do for the event planner to convince her to alter her schedule? When I asked him, he lifted a shoulder.

“I’m giving her clients a thirty percent discount off the use of all Manning venues for the next year.” When my mouth parted, he his blue eyes dropped to my lips. “It was a small price to pay.”

First he’d served me lunch and now he’d gone out of his way to make a business meeting happen for me. I had to fight to keep myself from swooning right then and there.

“You make it hard—” I started, but I cut myself off, a deep moan pushing up from the back of my throat as his thumbs stroked my collarbone.

“No, beautiful, you make it fucking hard.” With his free hand, he grabbed my fingers, pressing them to the zipper of his tailored pants. He stifled my gasp, nipping at my bottom lip, then the top. Sheer lust flared within me, constricting my core. “But tell me, what do I make it hard to do? And don’t lie to me.”

I jerked him closer to me by his tie, feeling his cock stiffen against my other hand. Wow. I struggled to find the words I was searching for, and momentarily, the only one that entered my brain was gifted. Oliver Manning was incredibly and without a doubt gifted.

When he cleared his throat, I jerked my hand from his zipper, clutching it to my chest like I’d just been scorched. “You make it hard to tell you no,” I finally told him.

“Then maybe you should start saying yes.” Lowering his attention to the navigation’s clock on the center console, he groaned. Then, without warning, he untangled himself from me. “Time’s up.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I promised Ms. Marchand five minutes, and I’m a man of my word.”

Is he kidding?

He had to be, right?

But I watched helplessly as he got out the Viper and came around to open the door for me. Taking my hands in his, he pulled me up, making sure that the front of my body brushed up against his so I could feel every inch of what I wasn’t saying yes to today.

“That was intentionally cruel,” I said, but he rubbed his thumb over the center of my lips.

“Next time, Lizzie.”

As I stalked into the hotel, my body burning from the few minutes I’d spent inside his sports car, I could feel his blue eyes following me. I gave my hips a practiced extra little sway as payback, and I could just hear his frustrated growl as the door closed behind me.

*

Thanks to a combination of dreams and nightmares that night—everything from Oliver to my father—by eleven the next morning, I already had a massive headache building as I listened to the Emerson & Taylor board of directors meeting. Even though I’d quickly given up the hope that one of the male voices would jump out to me, revealing the identity of the man who’d called me nearly five months ago, I continued to pay close attention from my spot near Margaret where I was recording the meeting and also taking notes.

“...the effectiveness of the winter marketing campaign?” the company’s vice-president was asking Margaret, when she leaned her blond head close to mine.

“We’re recessing for lunch in an hour,” she whispered. “I need you to call the restaurant and make sure the delivery will be here on time.”

“Of course.” As I started to leave, grateful for a breath of air away from the crowded conference room, she grabbed my wrist, her wedding rings cold against my skin. I looked down to see her light blue eyes were narrowed in warning.

“Don’t screw this up, Ms. Connelly.”

I wanted to tell her that I hadn’t screwed up with the event planner yesterday or with any of her travel plans so far, but I gave her a dutiful nod before quietly leaving the conference area. As I started to my desk, the open French doors leading into Margaret’s office, and the laptop sitting on her desk, stopped me in my tracks. I regarded them for several seconds, wavering over whether or not to go in. If she caught me, she’d probably fire me on the spot. Fire me and start digging around for more information about me.

But hell, this moment was too convenient to pass up.

I glanced over my shoulder to make sure I was alone before sneaking inside the office and closing the door.

Sliding into the chair on the other side of her desk, I tapped the MacBook’s keyboard, feeling a rush of excitement when the screen illuminated to reveal the desktop. No password, which was a shock I knew Pen wouldn’t even believe when I told her later. I scanned over the icons—a variety of folders labeled everything from Fiscal Reports to Marketing Plans to Charity.

The one that made my heart drop, though, was the folder titled Gregory Emerson.

My father.

I didn’t know what I was expecting to see when I clicked on the icon, but an old picture of my dad and Margaret stared back at me. She was smiling—the first authentic sign of pleasure I’d ever seen on my stepmother’s face—with her arms wrapped intimately around him. They were both blond and blue-eyed—though my father’s eyes had been midnight—and I hated to admit they looked happy together. Leaning closer to the screen, I squinted to see that behind them, a banner indicated they were at the 1994 charity event for a local children’s hospital.

I swallowed the lump in my throat before it could finish forming. My father had still been married to my mom at the time.

Wow.

Had she known? Had she realized that my dad might be cheating on her?

Is that what had torn them apart?

I started to click to the next picture, but movement outside the door immediately halted me. When the knob twisted, I quickly exited out the folder and scrambled beneath Margaret’s desk, my heart hammering in my throat as I waited for her to find me hiding, jerk me up by my hair, and start freaking out.

Maybe she’d call security and Carl would shake his balding head in disappointment as they grilled me about what I was doing in her office.

But then I heard a voice that set my blood on fire for entirely different reasons. “Thanks for your concern, Dora, but I swear I can handle it.”