When she had the door firmly shut behind her, she wobbled over to the bed, where most of the contents of her suitcase were chaotically strewn all over the duvet cover, and sank down in relief. Her entire body still shook in the aftermath of the best sex—and the biggest mistake—of her life.
She buried her face in her hands.
“It’s just sex,” she told herself, and was embarrassed by the unsteady pitch of her voice. And by the lie. She was definitely embarrassed by the blatant lie, even if the only person she was trying to deceive was herself. That wasn’t just sex. That had been the most mind-numbing, bone-melting, awe-inspiring forty-five minutes of her life, and there was no getting around that. The irritating man certainly knew his way around a woman’s body. Her nipples ached just thinking about it, and to be frank, everything else was still tightening and convulsing in the aftermath of the soul-shattering orgasm she’d just had.
But to sleep with Dante Damaso? She shuddered in a way that had nothing to do with the microexplosions still tingling all over her body and everything to do with the fact that she could barely stand the man. So what if he was mouth-wateringly gorgeous? He was still an obnoxious, misogynistic jerk with a smug self-assurance that rubbed her the wrong way every time he spoke. Then there was the way he practically sneered every time he said Miss Knight, or the way he couldn’t seem to look at her when he talked to her, or seemed incapable of a single please or thank-you. And—horribly—after one stupid mistake on her very first day of work, he now insisted on painstakingly checking every single letter she typed for him before she was allowed to e-mail it. It was humiliating, and while the mistake hadn’t been repeated since then, he made it absolutely clear that he did not trust her to do anything more challenging than make coffee, water the plant, and send his kiss-off notes. Of course, he didn’t micromanage the rest of his staff the way he did Cleo, and she knew if he weren’t one of her brother’s buddies, Dante would probably have fired her within the first week. But she was damned if she’d quit, the way he obviously expected—wanted?—her to.
And she had slept with him. She couldn’t even blame alcohol, exhaustion, or temporary insanity . . . hold on. Maybe she could blame temporary insanity. She must have lost her mind. Why else would she have slept with the condescending, arrogant bastard?
She headed toward the en suite bathroom, tugging off her hopelessly wrinkled dress as she went. She fumbled with the complicated bells and whistles in the shower cubicle. It’s a shower; why is it so damned difficult anyway? She finally got the water going and gratefully stepped beneath the powerful spray before swearing and fumbling with the knobs and buttons to set it to a temperature less than scalding.
“Damn it.” The words were mild but heartfelt. She didn’t know if she was sophisticated enough to be cool about a one-night stand. With her boss. Whom she despised.
She rested her forehead on the cool tiles before thumping it softly and rhythmically against the unforgiving surface. This was a disaster. She enjoyed sex, but she had never previously indulged outside at least a semicommitted relationship. This was uncharted territory for her. Where did they go from here?
Of all the stupid . . . She shook herself. She wasn’t achieving anything with the self-recriminations. It had happened. Now she needed to figure out how the hell she was going to get through the rest of their time here and what she would do if she had to find a new job once they got back to Cape Town.
It would suck if it came to that, because she really enjoyed the challenge of this job. Back in South Africa, Dante regularly swapped her for other executive assistants in the upper echelons of his global, multi-billion-dollar leisure industry conglomerate, and it was on those days Cleo truly liked her new job. None of the other executives seemed to doubt her competence and rarely gave her the mind-numbingly boring and simplistic tasks Dante liked to saddle her with.
Cleo finished her shower and wrapped herself in the warm terry-cloth robe provided by the hotel. She sauntered over to the huge floor-to-ceiling window and stared out at the sprawling nightscape. She had always dreamed of visiting Japan—had hoped to dance here someday. She allowed herself a small, wistful smile and a momentary pang at the thought of all she’d lost before shoving the memory of what she’d once been able to do—what she still yearned to do—back into a box and placing it into a mental drawer. She could never fully shut that damned drawer; it was always slightly open, and every so often something—the dream of a different life—would escape from it and haunt her reality. She drew in a long breath and released it shakily. She had way too much else going on right now. She couldn’t allow the coulda/shoulda beens to intrude on what was already an emotionally impactful night.
She tried to empty her mind of everything and focus only on the view. From her fortieth-floor vantage point, the shimmering lights looked as pretty as a Christmas tree, but she wondered at the constant frenetic activity in this crazy city that didn’t seem to have slowed down at all, despite the lateness of the hour. She knew she should try to get some sleep. It was after three in the morning, and Dante Damaso would undoubtedly be up, dressed, and disgustingly alert by seven. She crawled into the king-size bed, which was positioned so she could still see the skyline. She curled up on her side and stared down at the blinking lights of the traffic far, far below before drifting into a restless sleep.
Dante woke as he usually did, fully aware of his surroundings and not the slightest bit groggy despite the lack of sleep and jet lag. For once that ability wasn’t a blessing, not when he was immediately bombarded by the memory of the colossal error in judgment he had made the night before.
“Shit,” he hissed beneath his breath, wasting a brief moment of his very precious time on a twinge of regret before shrugging that smidgen of conscience away. Instead he attempted to focus his attention on a solution to what could definitely become a problem. The sex had been quite good, really, and just what he’d needed to blow off the frustrations of the day. But the girl was his employee, a very junior employee—and Dante hardly ever went there. Plus, she was his friend’s sister, and Dante for damned sure never went there. And yet he’d gone there last night and had no one to blame but himself.
To give Chloe her due, she had never looked at him in that way, never hinted at wanting any form of sexual relationship with him. If anything, until last night, she had been indifferent toward him and even seemed to dislike him at times. He snorted at that last thought, dismissing it as unlikely. When women pretended indifference, they were usually playing hard to get, and she was definitely the type to play ridiculous games like that. Look how easily she’d fallen into his bed last night. Surely that was proof she’d been harboring some sort of attraction for him all along.
He just hoped she didn’t think it would be the start of something; he really didn’t need the complication of breaking Luc’s sister’s heart. He liked the guy and they had been friends for a long time—and even though Dante had known of her existence, he had never actually met Luc’s sister until she applied for this job. He hadn’t been too enthused by the idea of giving her the position—especially in light of his unexpected physical response to her presence. But he wasn’t about to offend one of his few real friends by refusing to give the man’s precious sister a job—no matter how woefully underqualified she was on paper.
He shook himself impatiently, irritated that he had already wasted this much time on the incident when he had to figure out how to approach the precarious situation with the Shinjuku metropolitan government. He resented having to devote any of his time to considering the possible ramifications of his ill-advised sexual encounter with a woman. Not when he had so many other pressing issues to deal with.
He shook his head as he rose from bed and crossed to the bathroom for a quick shower. He had the utmost confidence he would handle this incident in the best way possible; it was just sex, after all. By the time he was dressed and ready to face the day, he had already dismissed the episode and was focused on other, far more important matters.
When Cleo joined Dante in the living room, he greeted her with his usual morning grunt, keeping his focus on his laptop.
“Miss Knight, I need you to send an urgent e-mail to Miles Kinross for the Phase One original blueprints,” he said without looking up.
“Right now?” she asked, and he lifted his gaze from the computer screen to frown at her.
“Yes, right now. I wouldn’t use the word ‘urgent’”—he used mocking air quotes—“if I didn’t want it right now.”
Cleo gritted her teeth, bit back the sarcastic retort hovering on the tip of her tongue, and settled for saccharine sweetness instead.
“Well, I only ask, sir, because it’s midnight in South Africa, and Mr. Kinross may not be checking his e-mails. I thought you might prefer the direct approach of a phone call instead.”
“Then make yourself useful and get him on the line. Be proactive for a change.”
She lifted her brows and picked up her company phone. She really wished she hadn’t fallen into bed with this man so easily. But having regrets now—while she still sported patches of stubble burn on her inner thighs and her breasts tingled tantalizingly—was a waste of energy. His sultry mouth had trailed over every inch of her skin, and his heavy stubble had left a pale pink trail in some of the places he had lingered. There was even a faint sting in the small of her back, telling her she probably wore the same naughty stubble burn just above her butt.