That’s exactly what I have to do.
I pick up my phone and push the button for my assistant. “Betty,” I bite out when she answers, “find out how I can reach Avery Samuels.”
“Avery Samuels?” she repeats, her shock evident.
“That’s what I said.”
“Mr. Turner, I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”
“Betty, I don’t pay you for your opinions. I pay you to do what I tell you. And right now I’m telling you to get me in contact with Avery.”
“Yes, Mr. Turner,” she says quickly.
I slam the phone down, immediately regretting the harsh way I spoke. I guess it’s true what they say. Finn Turner is an asshole.
I scowl. Funny thing is, I’m not, even though my actions point to the complete opposite. I just know what I want, and I’m determined to have it.
And right now I want Avery Samuels in my office.
I try to convince myself its because I need to talk her down from this campaign, convince her to let me do what I need to, not because I just want to see her again, to watch those chocolate eyes flare with that intensity that matches my own.
Sighing, I pace again. She has no idea what I have planned. No one does. I’m sure she wouldn’t be pushing the issue if she really understood. But I can’t tell her that. Not yet.
Fifteen minutes later Betty is knocking on my door. I rip it open, trying to keep the impatience and turmoil off my face, attempting an apologetic smile. “Sorry for snapping earlier. This is just really important.”
She looks at me warily and holds out a piece of paper with an address on it that isn’t too far from my Midtown office building.
“What’s this?” I expected a phone number.
“I couldn’t find a number for her. Or a place of employment. That’s her home address.”
I frown. No number or job? My company has access to the latest technology, search engines that aren’t available to the public. A phone number should be the easiest thing to obtain. I shake it off and snatch the slip of paper. Oh well. This will have to do.
I grab my suit jacket from where it hangs on a hook behind my door and slip it on.
“Where are you going?” Betty asks, eyes wide.
“To talk to Avery.” I brush past her. “Cancel my afternoon appointments.”
“Mr. Turner,” she calls out. “It’s really not a good idea.”
I ignore her warning and punch the button for the elevator. Right now having Avery Samuels in front of me—in the flesh instead of in my ridiculous fantasies that I can’t seem to get rid of—sounds like the best damn idea I’ve ever had.
42
Avery
The knock on my door pulls me out of the focused frame of mind that I’ve been in for most of the morning. I sigh as I push from my chair and walk toward the door. This better not be my downstairs neighbor again. If I so much as drop something on the floor, they think they need to come complain about the noise. Yep, I live above the noise police. Ridiculous, considering the noise from outside is way louder than anything I do.
Sticking my pencil into the messy bun atop my head, I pull the door wide, opening my mouth to get ready to fend off the complaints. The words die in my throat. In fact, I’m totally speechless. Pretty sure I can’t even think, either.
Because standing less than two feet in front of me is Finn Turner, his huge body stretched over my doorway as he leans on his hands that are braced on my door frame. He towers over me, all strong and intimidating and too damn sexy.
Ugh. Not sexy. That’s not what I meant. But I’m only deceiving myself. Because this man is nothing if not sexy. He radiates sex, his hair darker in the dim light of the hallway, only faint traces of the red visible in all the dark, the strands slightly mussed as if he’s been running his fingers through it. Mine itch to dive in, too.
Shut that shit down, Avery.
Setting my jaw, I meet his eyes. Blue. “What are you doing here?” I’m glad to hear that none of the desire that’s flowing through my veins like a drug is echoed in my voice. Just what the cocky asshole needs—to think I’m interested in him. At least not in any way other than decimating his efforts to destroy the MTA.
“Now, that’s not a very nice way to treat a visitor, Ms. Samuels.” His lips quirk up in that same arrogant smirk he wore yesterday. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
I lean against the door, gripping the wood as if it will steady me against the torrent of salacious thoughts that invade my mind. “I don’t think I will. But if you’re lost I can point you in the direction of the exit.”
He laughs, the smirk twisting into a genuine smile. “You’re quite the spitfire, aren’t you?”