Page 33 of Wicked Fortune

He gives me a long, dry stare. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

I try to fight my grin but fail. “Your secrets are safe with me.”

He tilts his head as if studying me. As if wondering if I really mean that. Honestly, I think maybe I do.

One corner of his mouth curves up. “That would be quite a burden,” he says. “I have so many.” He shifts on the sofa. Now he’s positioned so that he could put his hand on my leg. But he’s not so close that he’s in my personal space.

I kind of want him to slide into my personal space.

I clear my throat. “Why not tell me one? I’ll prove to you I can keep your secret, and you can relieve yourself of a burden. Sounds like a win-win to me.”

His smile lights his face, and he leans back, his right arm stretched along the top of the couch behind me. It’s not touching me, but I’m overly aware of it, as if the air between my back and his arm is warmer than the rest of the room. “Already she’s trying to move up in my organization.”

I shake my head, not understanding.

“Your excellent negotiating skills,” he says. “You won’t stay a PA for long.”

I tilt my head and meet his gaze dead on, taking control of the moment. “Maybe I like the job. Personal assistant, I mean.”

I’m playing with fire, and I know it. But the plan was to get close. And so far, what’s under my outfit hasn’t worked as the first-string play, despite Matthew having chosen that play himself.

That’s when I realize that while I’m still wearing my suit jacket, he’s not wearing his jacket or his tie. The first two buttons of his shirt are undone, and I can see just a smattering of hair on his chest. He must have shed the corporate uniform when his meeting ended.

In a whoosh, the ease and control I’d felt moments earlier slips away with the stealth of James Bond himself. I’m no longer cool and calm, and butterflies are doing the Rumba in my stomach.

I start to take a sip of my drink—I need it—but he lifts his hand to stop me. “What shall we drink to?”

I hesitate, then look him straight in the eye as I say, “To friendship and loyalty.”

He nods. If he reads anything into my words, he doesn’t show it. “And to new beginnings,” he adds, then clinks my glass. His gaze lingers on mine, and while it might be my imagination, I think I catch a hint of challenge in his eyes.

“And new adventures,” I add before taking a sip. The words feel bold, but his smile deepens, as if I’ve passed some sort of test.

He tilts his head, studying me over the rim of his glass. “This industry can be … challenging,” he says, his voice low. “Especially for those who don’t know what they’re getting into.”

“And we’re talking about me?”

“On the contrary. I think you know exactly what you’re getting into. I think you like a challenge. An adventure.” As he speaks, his gaze dips briefly—almost imperceptibly—to the hem of my skirt, currently sitting midway up my thigh.

I feel his words as if they’re a physical touch, skimming over the lace he knows I’m wearing. He hasn’t mentioned the lingerie, but every glance, every pause in his speech reminds me of it, keeping me acutely aware that beneath my professional facade, I’ve followed his every command.

I cast about for a clever retort, but one doesn’t come, and I’m left with the rather mortifying realization that even though I know this man may very well be complicit in Jenny’s death, all I want in this moment is his touch. His hands on my skin. His mouth on my lips. It’s been too long since I’ve felt the kind of tug I feel with Holt, like I’m a live wire ready to spark.

I work to steady my breath, hoping he can’t hear my heartbeat. I take a long sip of my whisky, needing to feel that burn.

I’m lost in a sea of frustration, wanting to beg, but knowing that would take me out of the game.

And that’s when I realize the truth—this is a game. The job, the lingerie, even the desire in his eyes. It’s real. I don’t think I’m fooling myself about that. But the rest of this—the commanding manner, the sexy underthings, the hand on my thigh. The arm behind my back.

Even the buzz from the whisky. It’s a game of control. And every move is him telling me that he’s won.

I should be furious. I’m not.

Instead, I’m more desperate than ever for his touch. Not that I’m going to tell him that.

In fact—damn him—I do the only thing I can do to shift the score back to my side of the court. I slide away from him, then study his face, looking for a sign that I’ve broken from the script.

But he’s as unreadable as ever.