Page 49 of Wicked Fortune

I suck in a breath, check my hair and makeup in the visor mirror, then climb out of the car and head for his door, trying desperately to look like a woman who’s there only for a movie … and whatever delicious interlude might come after.

I press the buzzer, and the door opens so quickly that my heart does a little leap from the knowledge that he must have been waiting for me.

“I saw you park the car,” he says, apparently seeing my surprise.

“Oh.” A wash of heat spreads over me in what I’m sure is a full-body blush. “I, um … oh, hell. I was wasting time. Checking emails and then checking my makeup.” I smile up at him. “I didn’t want to look too eager.”

“I get it,” he says, ushering me inside. “I only noticed because I’ve been checking the exterior cams for the last ten minutes. So if it’s a competition to see who’s more eager, I think I may have won the trophy.”

His smile is warm and teasing, and my stomach does a little flip. “Maybe we’ve both won,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” he says, closing the door behind me. “I wonder what we’ll get as a prize?”

I turn back, smiling at the devilish gleam in his eyes. “Something fabulous, I hope.”

For a moment, we just stand there, both of us taking the other in. It should be awkward—like teens on a first date who aren’t sure where to go in the house to avoid mom and dad. Except it’s not awkward at all. Just the opposite. It feels like a welcome. Like in some weird way, this is my space, too.

I shake my head, certain my thoughts are getting way ahead of his reality.

I remind myself to be careful. I know the man I want him to be. I know the man he seems to be.

But I don’t yet know the man he really is. Or what that man may have done.

“You look stunning,” he says, sending a warm rush of pleasure careening through my blood.

I flash a quick smile. “What? This old thing?”

The dress is one I’d picked up on sale about a year ago. On a hanger, it looks plain. Even dull. A bit like a long, clingy, sleeveless shirt with a deep scoop neck and criss-crossing straps across the back. It’s midnight black and made out of some stretchy blend, that hugs me in all the right places.

The neck is low enough to show a hint of bra, but the material is tight enough that a bra’s not really necessary. I’d considered showing a daring hint of red lace but decided that letting the girls roam free was more fun. From the way Holt’s eyes keep dipping to my cleavage, I think I made the right choice.

As for the rest of the dress, it hugs my hips and thighs, but not so tight that it reveals the band of the silky thong he’d given me with the contract. I figured it was only fair for him to have a peek.

But where it really shines is on my ass, because the material perfectly hugs and accentuates those curves. More important, the same Louboutins I wore to Masque are on my feet, adding a bit of height and a bit more curve to my rear end.

All in all, I think I look hot. And from what I can see, Matthew agrees with that assessment.

“Come on,” he says, extending his hand. I take it, then let him lead me to the kitchen where a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle bourbon sits on the counter next to a carafe of coffee.

I raise a brow as I turn to look at him, sure my awe is reflected all over my face. That shit is both rare and pricey.

He shrugs, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I wasn’t sure which you’d prefer. I also have Coke, Diet Coke, possibly Dr. Pepper, a full bar if bourbon’s not your poison tonight, and a variety of wines.”

“A full service host.”

“We aim to please.”

I eye the bottle of Pappy. “Is that the fifteen year? Isn’t that almost impossible to get?”

He moves to the counter and pulls out the cork, then pours just a taste. “Anything can be had for a price,” he says. He holds the glass out for me. “Even rare and delicious things.”

A shiver runs up my spine at his words, and I almost turn away. Almost tell him that this is a mistake and I shouldn’t even have signed on as his PA. But I don’t know if I’d be running because I fear him or because I want him.

Probably both.

Both are a reason to stay as much as they are to go. I want answers, after all. And, yes, I want him, too.

I sniff the bourbon, then take a small taste, letting it sit, feeling the burn. I don’t know much about bourbon—or any alcohol, really. But I know what I like. And this is exceptional.