He picks it up, tearing my trance in two.
I tuck my fist into my side, my sweaty fingers now trembling from something more dangerous than desire. Grabbing my notebook and laptop with one hand, I try to blaze past Heath, almost clipping his shoulder with mine as I make my way past him to the door.
Until he grabs me.
I turn to him before crossing through it.
He places his phone on his shoulder, his towering frame hovering over mine as he gazes down at me, his sharp jaw ticking. I don’t say a word.
“I need a moment with you before you go.”
“I don’t have a moment, Heath,” I tell him, my voice barely above a whisper. “And even if I did…I have no intention of sharing it with you.”
I don’t like what “a moment” suggests. And, hell, the suggestion part is a stretch, at best. He’s telling me what he’s going to do, reverting back to the old Heath…and I’m tempted to pepper spray those big brown eyes of his right out of their sockets.
The man’s ego knows no bounds.
“A moment is the last thing you and I need, Heath. Trying to play nice doesn’t seem to work for either of us these days, so here’s my suggestion.”
I tap the mace from earlier on my hip, pointing the non-spraying end in his direction.
“Just please, Heath,” I release a long breath, feeling it down to my toes. “Just stay the hell out of my way…and I promise to stay out of yours. I appreciate your help. I do. But like I said when we first met again: We can work… Just separate.”
With those words, I turn…but not before seeing a strange smile creep slowly onto his face.
It isn’t until I’m halfway down the hall, almost to the front door of the building, that I realize the can of mace in my hand—the one I’ve been waving around during my little tirade—is actually my small, pink Rabbit vibrator.
Hence, the smile…
I sigh.
I can’t seem to win when it comes to Heath, my body whispering that it doesn’t want to…
Chapter Fifteen
HEATH
There was a natural rhythm to the clicking of the Mont Blanc pen she was using to write in the margins of her notepad, and where I was positive that that sort of nervous habit would have driven me bat-shit crazy anywhere else, right here…with her?
I found it oddly charming.
Maybe it was because she was so damned focused. Maybe it was because of her charming button nose…
I couldn’t help but notice the small scar across her hand, a birthmark near her knuckle. Her calves and wrists were tiny and though her fingers constantly moved as she scribbled on the pages of the book in front of her, everything else was as unmoving as ice.
Her demeanor was twice as frigid.
It was clear that her aloofness was practiced, and though I admired her for sticking to it as long as she could, I held in a silent laugh at the knowledge that her rigid façade would fall at my feet.
I just couldn’t stop myself.
I liked to chip at the cracks. I fiddled with the breaking points in people’s psyches, poking at their fissures—prodding at the chinks in their armors until the only option left for the armor was to crumble.
Melt.
I was carefully working at melting Violet’s arctic veneer. And though it took longer than most, I was enjoying it. I let my hot gaze travel the length of her body, lingering below her breasts until the speed of her pen’s clicking began to quicken.
I wasn’t big enough of a prick to order her around. Although, I had the absolute power to do so.
This was one woman—an employee now, at that—that I couldn’t touch, but I had to admit: I admired her. And I didn’t admire many people.
She was slightly nervous, I could tell…but she was doing her damnedest to not show it.
She had no idea how alike she and I really were. Two people without real family—fumbling around in the world. I pass through the office, stalking towards her.
Knocking before entering, I stroll inside the small room, and she blinks up at me, raising her head from between her pages and lifting it in my direction. With a shaky grin, she says my name, and all of a sudden I’m thinking of last night. Of what it should have been.
Her shoes would have never made it. Her loose bun would have been obliterated. Her skirt would have sat rumpled around her waist by the time I was bending her over her desk—pounding into her, beating her body with my own to the rhythm of that nervous pen-clicking habit I’d grown to strangely adore.
But guilt makes me stop, halts the fantasy in my fucked-up head. I’m still dealing with the guilt that I’ve been leading her to the front of a firing squad, and I only hope that she is smart enough to see what’s coming her way. That David King, and the other senior partners I suspect are on his side, have no intentions on helping her, on being decent.
And the clincher?
I honestly don’t know why I want to. Why I want to help the firm.
Marilyn was right; where had I fucked around and found a conscience?
I’m willing to bet the Beemers that half of our attorneys drove here today…that Violet won’t exactly be pleased to be saved by the likes of someone like me.
Not like she really has a choice in the matter. I’m here.
In fact, one of the main reasons I’m here is because of her…
Because I needed to know.
Know that I wasn’t being clouded by judgment just because Violet Keats was attractive to look at. Know that I wasn’t entertaining making the biggest move in this firm’s history because I couldn’t separate the twisted twosome of business and pleasure, even as I imagined the last time that I was forced to separate everything that was long and hard on me from her half-naked and panting little body.
I’d talked Keats into letting me meet her client. That was enough for now.
In fact, the client had called the meeting when Violet told her the good news. That I might take her case. That I might risk the very ground we all walked on to help a client bury a man whose business once put us at the top of the law firm ranks.
I close my eyes, sucking in a breath so hard it almost fucking hurts. I reach out my hand.
“Mind if I borrow a pen?”
Her grin wilts as she looks into my eyes. “Sure.”
Violet rummages through her drawers, producing another expensive pen. As she passes it to me, our fingers touch, and the thought of fucking her is almost enough to make me cancel this meeting with the client when my new secretary buzzes my phone, announcing her arrival.
I leave with a nod, willing my hard-on to save it for another time. Summoning the potential new client in, my pulse pulling a Gene Kelly on the tip of my tired tongue, I take a seat behind my desk, squeezing my fists.
Strengthening my willpower, I remember what Marilyn said, what Brett lectured me about. With their voices in my head, I find a willpower I’d believed I’d lost.
Twenty seconds later, the client opens the door, beating back the sounds inside my brain.
Ms. Fletcher was dignified, that was for sure. Clad in a blue suit that cost more than a BMW, she steps lightly into my gigantic office, her gaze flitting over the glass. Clearly accustomed to the finer things in life, she almost sneers at my father’s infamous, lightly chipped oak desk. Tempted to tell her that this desk has seen more action than she’s encountered in two lifetimes, I smile instead, rising to my feet as I shake her thin hand, motioning towards her seat.