“Shut up with your useless drivel and do it!” Morganna yells. “That was to Phillipe, not you, honey.”
“Are you always such a bitch to him?” I ask, laughing. It makes me feel a little better knowing Phillipe is having a bad day, too.
“No, only when he questions me,” she deadpans. “I’m serious about Maverick, too. He-e…” she trails off.
“He what?”
“Might as well tell you, you’ll find out soon enough. He called me this morning trying to get your information. I didn’t give it of course. But I’m sure he’ll find another way. He’s persistent at his worst.”
“Oh,” I say. I’m sure she knows I’m disappointed, but if she says it’s for the best I have to trust her. Especially with something like this—something she deals in. She knows The Guys.
“Thanks, I guess. I’ll let you get back to work.”
“When he finds you, because I know he will, don’t get upset with me when I say ‘I told you so’. Gotta go, darlin’.” Her accent slips at the end. She was being sincere.
Click. The line is dead.
I scribble doodles all over the notepad with Steve’s number. I feel like a traitor because I secretly hope Maverick gets in touch before I make this phone call. Then I won’t have to worry about anything except hot sex. Morganna doesn’t know that I already know what type of guy he is. I tried the good guy for a long time and it ended up biting me in the ass. A bad guy was exactly what I needed all along. A villain—a nasty one with hot hands and wet lips. I’m not trying to find insta-love, or even insta-lust, even though the last one is probably part of the deal.
A shiver shoots down my spine and my core clenches. It’s ten a.m. and I’ve gotten nothing accomplished. I pick at my barely living desk plant. I dump the remnants of my water bottle onto the soil. “You never had a chance,” I whisper to the inanimate object.
“You have two afternoon appointments. New clients. One and Four,” Hannah drones through my phone’s intercom.
“After lunch? Why one, Hannah?” I had plans to go home for a long lunch and have a long drawn out date with Bob, my battery operated boyfriend. I sigh. “E-mail me the info,” I say.
My inbox chimes almost immediately. One is just a tax consult, which is normal and boring. The second email, the one o’clock appointment with T.H., is a full consult. My boss has an asterisk next to the subject line, which means money. Lots of it.
I beep Hannah back. “How much are we talking?”
“No details. He requested you. Even after I told him you prefer morning appointments.”
The ad I placed online must be working if I’m getting people requesting me personally. I fought an internal battle after the woman in marketing told me I’d get more business if I posted a photo of myself with the advertisement. Like a freaking personal ad or something. I guess I should thank her if it’s actually working. Our accounting firm is large, and there are plenty of other accountants with a lot more experience and with substantially larger resumes. John Nash is also an accountant in this firm. He works a few floors up and I never run into him. I think it’s purposeful. I went a little crazy the months, and probably year, after his cheating scandal. My co-workers went out of their way to make sure I’d never see him again. I don’t even see Nashhole’s car. His parking garage is on the other side of the building.
“Thanks,” I yell a little too loudly before shutting off my intercom. I’m intrigued to find out what I’ll be working with. Who I’ll be working with. The giddy thoughts of advancing because of a large account make me forget why I didn’t get anything done all morning. With a new purpose I start plowing through my work, balancing accounts and calling clients. On a roll, I work straight through lunch, clearing my workload so I can leave directly following my four o’clock. It startles me when Hannah’s voice echoes in my small office.
“Your one,” she stutters. I narrow my eyes at the phone, wondering what the hell is making the iron-willed Hannah fumble words. “Your one is here, Ms. Forbes.” Recovered completely. Even addressing me formally in front of clients like our boss requests. I straighten my desk so I don’t look like a complete paper slob.
“Send them back, please,” I tell her. I comb my fingers through my hair and plaster the fake, friendly smile on my face. The same smile that is on my ad. The one they expect. I’m discovering new levels of vanity I never knew could exist.
All vanity goes directly out the window the second Mr. T.H. enters my office, closing the door behind him.
“Windsor Forbes. You were far easier to track down than you should be,” Maverick says. I should be scared because he obviously stalked me. I should be angry that this asshole didn’t take no for an answer. I should beep Hannah and tell her to send security up to my office, even though I’m sure the rent-a-cops wouldn’t stand a chance against the muscle wall that is Maverick.
But I don’t do any of those things. I shake my head out of sheer feminine cattiness. Inside? My stomach is doing flip-flops and my heart is pounding, sending jolts all the way down to my sex. The things that flit through my mind are all lewd. Crass. We are both naked in all of the images. Sweating, skin clapping, hair pulling. I want him. His dimples are out in full force, because I still haven’t spoken. He knows what he’s doing to my insides.
“T.H.? Well who would have thought,” I say, extending my hand to shake his. I’m suddenly a little disappointed it’s Maverick when I was expecting to land a huge account. Granted, I will land some other huge object straight between my thighs. He must see the displeasure on my face.
He takes my outstretched hand, shakes it, and then folds his large arms across his chest. “Expecting someone else?” he asks.
“Yes and no. I spoke with Morganna today. She told me you wanted my information.” As I say the words, paranoia hits me. Maybe Maverick really does have a lot of money and he does want me to manage it for him. Maybe he’s not interested in dating, screwing, insert sex act here, with me. He wants my professional services. I’m not sure what is worse. Not getting a large account or not getting him, Morganna’s warnings aside.
“I want your information, huh?” He stalks around my office like a predator. Which is what this man is. Fully. I love it. His eyes heat when he looks me up and down, not trying to hide his appraisal. He drags the office chair that sits in front of my desk next to my seat.
His proximity heats me, wetting my panties and blushing every part of me that isn’t covered by clothes. I cross my legs. His unreadable gaze darts to my legs and the black pencil skirt that covers my desire. This much man, and how he affects me, should be illegal.
“Well, you’ve found me. What can I do for you,” I say, glancing down at the paperwork he laid on top of my keyboard, “Mr. Thomas Maverick Hart?” Trying to ignore the way his arm brushes mine, I scan the numbers on the paperwork. The large numbers. Maverick is loaded. Not loaded like a Navy bachelor who has a couple re-enlistment bonuses in his account; he’s loaded like a trust fund baby who never has to work a day in his life. I feel his gaze boring into the side of my head as I read. It’s unrelenting. I look at him and hold up the top page, pointing at the bottom line.