A dinging noise made her glance at her laptop. Another email from Salvatore gave her a faint smile. Since she’d sought refuge in that conference room a few days ago, he’d acted as if she’d gone there to send a message. She couldn’t tell if any of the charm he’d poured on was real. Did he think he needed to seduce a good PR strategy out of her? For the time being, she acted polite, even while turning down invitations for coffee or a drink after work. He was handsome enough, but she wasn’t interested.
Andrew continued to work at his desk in silence, typing away at his laptop. Oh, how those fingers felt on her bare skin. Stop it.
He sat hunched, completely unaware of the mountain of mess around him. What the hell did his apartment look like? His hotel room had been neat enough. Although the darkness hid a lot of sins.
Some of her own, too.
He’d said something about being between apartments. Thinking about where he lived now, her mind’s eye wandered through what she thought his place looked like. Simple kitchen with maybe a few dishes in the sink. A plain living room, maybe a pop of color. Andrew did work in fashion. She swallowed, thinking about his bedroom. Was he a man who left an unmade, crumpled bed? Did his scent linger on the sheets?
Gwen put a hand over her mouth. Remembering how he pushed her down on that hotel bed, sent a hard thump between her legs. She tugged at her skirt. A man that good looking and great in bed must have had his share of women between the sheets. Maybe he’d had more than one at a time to prevent a line from forming at his door.
Her eyes wandered to the picture frame on his desk, which she replaced earlier in the week. Had she been the first woman Andrew slept with since his wife’s death? The last? Somewhere in the middle?
Gwen looked down and sighed. These crazy thoughts were getting her nowhere. Except frustrated as hell. She shook out her damp palms and twisted her fingers. Now her entire body ached from being turned on thinking about Andrew. Not good, because he would never touch her again. They had to work closely together. Office romances were problematic. Now more than ever. She had to keep things professional. She couldn’t afford to lose this job and as far as fashion gigs went, it didn’t get much better than Prada.
Andrew still sat there, typing away. She had emailed him ideas for the press releases two days ago, but he had yet to respond. It left her in a holding pattern. There was no point in going to the art department if Andrew hadn’t approved the copy.
Bored and restless, she stood and stepped to the window. Through its reflection, she saw Andrew still in his own little world. Her movements hadn’t made him budge. Next to his desk, someone had stacked a tall column of boxes up against the wall with folders wedged in between. It looked very unsteady, like she shouldn’t go near it.
She skulked toward the boxes, anyway. Being closer, she got a better look and saw labels with other shows’ dates and cities.
Way up high, she spotted a box labeled with the last fashion show Prada did in L.A. Bingo! That box probably had a chock-full of info she could use. She considered asking for help. Some men jumped through hoops to help women. Andrew’s body language at the moment suggested she shouldn’t disturb him.
She removed a chair from the messy meeting table they still hadn’t used and carried it to the stack.
She slipped off her shoes and stood on the vinyl seat.
“What are you doing?” Andrew asked in a booming deep voice, cracking a hole in the deafening silence.
She spun in his direction, flailing for something to keep her steady, but started to topple off the chair. Andrew jumped from his seat to reach her, his strong hands gripping her waist. The hold made her feel like falling even more. His fingers sent shock waves through her, shooting to her breasts and tightening her nipples, then south to soak her panties. Like her brain remembered his touch.
That. Want that!
She gazed down, hoping his gray eyes would tell her he felt the same. Just so she didn’t think she was crazy or alone in her attraction. But Andrew looked...mad.
Flushed and shaking.
“Thank you.” She spoke to fill the silence, and smiled, still wanting a reaction. Nothing. The release of his grip gave her back her sanity.
“What do you want?” he asked.
For a moment she thought he’d read her mind.
“Want?” she whispered.
“Why are you on this chair?”
She exhaled. “Oh, um, I see that box up there has an L.A. label on it. I wanted to look inside.”
“There’s nothing in there for you.” When she crinkled an eyebrow at him, he backpedaled. “I mean, there’s nothing in there, publicity-wise.”
“Okay, but this is my first really big show. I would still like to see what you’ve felt was so important that you kept it in a box for six years.”
He huffed, still red in the face. “Fine, let me get it.”
“I’m right here. I can reach it,” she said and leaned forward.
She hooked her fingers under the box and slid it from the stack, only her charm bracelets caught on the box below. The entire heap began to wobble, and with her hands full, the only thing she could use to stop it from crashing to the floor was her body.
The quick movement made her lose her footing again and her stomach did a little flip as she started to fall. Andrew lunged to catch her, lifting her away from the spectacular splat on the carpet she saw coming. Next, she was against the empty wall where the boxes were, Andrew pressing his body into hers to keep her upright. Binders, fabric, brochures, wristbands, access cards—Andrew’s entire career at Prada was dumped out on the floor and lay at their feet.
Andrew stayed utterly still. He clutched her waist keeping her in place. His commanding hold made her feel like Lois Lane when Superman soared through the sky, caught her, and said ‘I’ve got you.’ The solid heat of his body thrilled her.
She took that moment to watch him. She expected him to be brooding over the mess she’d made or gawking at the office door, where anyone could walk in.
No. His eyes stayed locked on her face, her eyes really, once she had the courage to meet them.
Her breath hitched at the fire in his gaze. She could feel his stare like hot strokes against her skin.
Flirting and coy conversation got her into his bed the first time.
This was different, he let her see the quiet power of his seduction. Her heart pounded in her chest.
Despite the distance he attempted to keep between them, it wasn’t working.
This man wanted her. Again.
Andrew was no longer a stranger. They worked together at a job she needed in order to pay her bills and give her the career she always wanted.
Kissing him, or doing anything with him, would threaten that.
No.
Using her own superhero strength, she looked away, because, holy moly, she could gaze at that face all day. She gently pressed down on the hands still wrapped around her waist.
He released her instantly and stepped back, his head tipped forward still staring at her. Gwen pushed a mess of hair out of her face with shaking hands and looked down at the clutter of papers.
I’m in so much trouble.
Trembling, Gwen said, “Andrew, I am so, so sorry. I’ll clean all this up. Just go back to...doing whatever you were doing. You won’t even hear me.”
His face remained expressionless and he said nothing. It’s when they don’t yell that you have to worry. He picked up the box that had fallen the farthest—the one marked L.A. He shook it and the sound of broken glass from inside meant Gwen may have destroyed something important. Oh crap!