"Next time, Isadora," Oliver began in a husky voice that held a note of laughter. "Don't ask me down here if you're just going to—"

"I won’t because you don’t even work here," Dora growled from inside her office. "So get the fuck out!"

"God, the professionalism..." His broad shoulders shaking, he turned around and entered the lobby, looking both devilishly gorgeous and completely relaxed in spite of his obvious argument with Dora. When he noticed Stella and the HR receptionist gaping at him, he stopped short.

And then, he smirked. It was a cocky, deliciously sexy turn of his lips that had me gripping my bag to my chest like it would ward him off from casting his spell on me. Smiles like Oliver's...they were dangerous—they were the ones that shattered the resolve of even the most cautious, and I clearly wasn’t cautious.

"Good morning," he drawled, inclining his head politely. Noticing me, he tipped his head once more in my direction. When he lifted his chin and our eyes locked, a flash of lightning struck me full force—a current to my heart that stole the breath right from the flames consuming my body.

Blue eyes.

Somehow, the media hadn’t done his eyes—cornflower blue fringed with sooty black lashes—justice. They were set in an oval face, bisected with a slightly crooked nose, and rivaled only by lips that were—I hated to admit—distractingly pouty.

It was a face that, paired with his godlike physique and ADHD dating habits, had magazines and entertainment networks calling him "The Bad Boy Next Door."

As if he sensed my reaction to him, his grin widened roguishly. The stare I managed to return was full of forced indifference, raising his thick eyebrows.

Because I didn't think of him as the man from the magazines. The millionaire. Mr. Sex-In-A-Business-Suit. I only knew him as Oliver Manning.

An obstacle.

My stepbrother.

Chapter 2

I was nine years old the only other time I’d seen Oliver Manning in person, but I remembered that day well. He was fifteen, and when he knelt by where my mom and I were huddled together on one end of the funeral home’s front pew, his movements tentative and shaky, I knew my father’s death had broken him too. Covering my much smaller hand with his, he’d given my fingers an encouraging squeeze.

I’d looked up through the haze—through the tears—to see his soft smile.

“I’m so sorry about your dad,” he said, his bright blue eyes red-rimmed. Despairing. He seemed to search for the right thing to say before his shoulders had drooped forward. “I’d give anything to fix this for you.”

I released a hiccup, followed by a sob, and then my mom had gathered me close, consoling me quietly in Ukrainian. She said something to Oliver before he left to join his own mother, but I hadn’t heard it.

All I heard was the finality of his words: My father was gone.

Now, as he sauntered away like a man who carelessly held the world in the palms of his hands, everyone remaining in the HR lobby was left wordless, motionless—myself included. Ultimately, Stella cleared her throat.  She came over to where I was still sitting, and with a chuckle, leaned down to whisper, "Like I said, you'll want that drink. You've got my card now—let me know when you're free."

My focus drifted over her shoulder, in the direction that Oliver had taken, and I nodded briskly. "Count on it."

"Good," she purred. Shifting her hips, she stood upright and raced her hands down the front of her black pencil pants. The decadent scent of her jasmine perfume lingered behind her as she left. "I'm off to pimp fashion, but good luck today. If you need any help—and I do mean anything—you know where to find me,” she threw over her shoulder as she walked off.

"Thanks," I called after her, although she was already out of sight and likely out of earshot. Hell, she was possibly even already on an elevator—maybe with Oliver.

Nope, don’t even go there.

Still, an image of him nudged its way into my thought—his current panty-eating grin and not the wavering smile of a fifteen-year-old boy—and I closed my eyes. Before I received that call four months ago, I knew a handful of facts about the man who'd been my stepbrother. Even after, my sole focus had been on his mother, so I hadn't gone out my way to research Oliver. Ivy League, notorious playboy, and sinfully good-looking,  Oliver was the heir of a hotel magnate and a fashion mogul. Thanks to his former hard-partying habits and choice in women—he’d dated an actress or two—he was a media darling, known more for his personal exploits than his reputation as a businessman.

That seemed about all anyone needed to comprehend about the man.

That is all I need to know about that man.

As if to serve as an additional warning, Dora appeared in the doorway to her office, draping her model-tall body against the metal frame. She was visibly agitated, displaying none of the chilly reserve I noted over a week ago when she told me the job was definitely mine.

"Lizzie?" she asked shakily, and I stared at her keenly. She waved her hand for me to come into her office. "I'm ready for you."

Nodding, I followed her inside. As I sat down in the compact chair in front of her L-shaped glass desk, my gaze fell on the Honeymoon: Isadora and Franklin photo frame on her desk and the picture of her and a blond guy who had the body of a professional football player, decked out in leis with their arms wrapped around each other. They looked happy, and I felt my heart jerk.

"Lizzie?" My head popped up and Dora combed her hand through her straight auburn hair and gave me a tight smile that made my own cheeks hurt. "You'll have to excuse what you just saw," she said, her words spoken cautiously.

Taking in the bright splotches peppering her ivory face and neck, I couldn't help but feel sorry for her. What had Oliver said, or done, to provoke her? I was ashamed to admit that after some of the jobs I'd worked in Vegas, my thoughts automatically crept toward the not-safe-for-work variety, but when I inhaled, I noticed the air reeked of a lemon-scented incense warmer, not sex.

"I honestly wasn't even paying attention. I...." I cut myself off and looked down at my lap.

Dora's high-arched, burnished gold eyebrows pulled together. "You what?"

I mustered a nervous laugh and shrugged. "It's my dad. He was texting like crazy this morning, and I had to respond. He'd freak out if I didn't." It was a lie that made me nauseous, but it was also necessary. I wasn't Gemma Emerson here, I was Lizzie Connelly.

Lizzie had a family—a mother and father as well as two siblings she was extremely close to.

"Hmm ... well, in any case, let's get you all set up so you can be on your way." She fixated her gray eyes intently on the computer screen and pecked on the keyboard. "I just need a couple of things from you."

"Yes, I received your email." I reached into my purse and pulled out the ID I'd presented to Carl downstairs not even fifteen minutes ago and the folded direct deposit form I had printed and completed at home. My earnings would be going to a prepaid debit card—another one of Pen’s brilliant ideas.

"Wonderful, I'll just take this out to Pamela to make a copy for our records." Dora scooted backward and left the office, her ballet flats padding lightly on the carpet. I didn't dare turn to look at her because I knew I would give myself away and instead of going to the seventh floor—Margaret's floor—I'd be promptly escorted out of Emerson & Taylor by the police. I took Dora's absence as an opportunity to catch my breath and allow myself to grasp that I'd made it in.