“Hola, chiquita.” Dark brown eyes rake me from head to toe. “Wow, looks like someone tripped and fell out of Vogue Magazine today.”
I ignore him and attempt to walk past him. He grabs my wrist, his hold surprisingly rigid as he examines the label of my new black, waterfall-styled coat.
“Valentino…” He frowns as his speculative gaze moves from the label to my face and back again.
Panicked, I snatch my wrist so hard from his grasp I know it’ll leave a mark. Shit. “You don’t ever touch me without my permission, Miguel. Ever.” There’s anger packed into every millimeter of that hushed sentence.
He raises his hand and steps back. “Cool it, sweet thing. Was only trying to compliment a lady, s’all.”
Every instinct screams at me to walk away, but I see the questions swirling in his eyes. I need to diffuse this new interest before it mushrooms.
I grind my teeth against the lies I need to tell to protect myself. But I have no choice. I can aggravate Miguel, or I can continue being laconic in the hope that he eventually gets the hint. Although from the way his eyes drop from my face to linger on my tits, I don’t think that day is coming soon.
“It’s…the coat…is a fake. And I have a thing after work. That’s why I’m dressed like this.”
He nods. “Like I said, we’re cool. You could’ve just said that.”#p#分页标题#e#
I notice he doesn’t apologize for grabbing me. I choose not to inform him that the last man who touched me without my permission ended up with a bullet in his chest. In fact, I stash that memory firmly into the don’t go there box and head for my locker. I can feel his eyes on me. When I look over my shoulder, I swear he’s aiming his phone camera at me while pretending to be absorbed in it.
Jesus.
I quickly turn back around and grab my work gear. As I peel my clothes off in the changing room, I examine each label and my mouth drops open. Valentino, Ferragamo, Balenciaga, Forever 21. My new leather boots are stylish but look fairly standard. Until I check the label.
Manolo Blahniks.
My heart sinks further.
Shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
After the fitness instructor left this morning, I hit the shower and dressed in a hurry, knowing I needed to hustle or be late for my shift. When a quick examination of each bag revealed an entire ensemble, I thanked the Lord because I didn’t have to waste time coordinating outfits. I just threw on the jeans, top and coat in the first bag, dragged on the boots and left.
The thought that I may have inadvertently painted a bullseye on my back through carelessness steadily claws through me for the next two hours as I finish laying tables and sorting condiment baskets in the Executive Restaurant. Once that’s done, I take a quick break, then return to wait on the side of the counter for the chef to finish preparing Quinn Blackwood’s lunch.
Even the thought of seeing him again doesn’t erase the naked flame of terror at what my carelessness could cost me. I listen with diminished attention as the chef rumbles through the intricacies of serving the CEO’s meal. I nod through it but have forgotten most of it by the time I wheel the trolley through Quinn’s frosted double doors.
He’s seated at his desk, as usual.
His gaze snaps to me the moment the door shuts, and stays riveted on me. As usual.
By the fourth or fifth step, my legs threaten to give way beneath the gravitational power of his stare. Nothing new there either. I arrive at the dining table without mishap, but still a little lost in my head.
“I thought we agreed on the general etiquette surrounding entering a room?”
My God. His voice.
It’s deep, cultured, oiled with class and money and power and glory. The kind of voice that stops you in your tracks, that makes you want to throw your softness at his hardness, bruise yourself on his attention.
The complete compulsion of his voice and stare swivels me round to face him.
“I’m sorry. Good afternoon, Mr. Blackwood.”
He recaps his black ball pen and sets it down with a precise action. His eyes never leave my face. “Good afternoon, Elly.”
I turn around and start laying his table. I know the moment he rises and walks to the front of his desk because the air thickens with awareness.
“Have you had lunch yet?” The same question as before.
A different answer today, courtesy of a text from Fionnella during my break to say she won’t be feeding me this afternoon. “No. Not yet.”
“Set a place for yourself.”
I freeze for a moment, then curb the turbulent rush of emotion. “Ah, no thanks. I’m good.”
I’m so attuned to him, I know the moment he straightens and heads toward me. His aura slams into me long before the spicy sandalwood of his aftershave wraps around me. “I hate to disagree with you, but no, you’re not good.”