The Dirty Series 1(7)

Once I’m in the hallway, striding toward the editorial bullpen, my blood pressure equalizes a little. I have a purpose for being out of the office for a few moments. Nobody can fault me for that.

Kirk is hunched over his desk, fingers flying over his keyboard. I hover for a second, and after a final burst of words, he swivels around to face me.

“Hey, Cate,” he says, his eyes locked on my face. “Come on in.”

He stands up from behind his desk and reaches down to the mini-fridge he keeps tucked between the desk and the window, pulling out an energy drink.

“How’s it going?” I tilt my head toward his computer screen.

“Good, good,” says Kirk, opening the can and downing half of it in one gulp. “You’ve got news.”

“She’s stopping the policewoman feature.”

Kirk lets out an epic sigh, dropping his chin to his chest for several moments. Then he looks up at me, rolling his eyes, and shrugs his shoulders.

I shrug back.

“Any replacement?” he asks, his body already turning back toward his desk.

“Ha, ha.”

“I figured as much.”

“I’ll let you know, okay?”

“Thanks, Cate.”

News delivered, I hustle back down the hall to Sandra’s office. There are a few people lingering in the conference rooms across from the glass doors with a hopeful shine in their eyes. It’s not going to happen for them.

At the doorway, two things happen at once: I reach for the polished handle of the doors, and I see him.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

This would happen. The one time I step away from my desk—and how long was I gone? Three minutes? Four?—someone has to show up. I run through the list of cancelled meetings. No one should be in there right now. Sandra won’t be happy if she discovers that someone has been loitering out here.

I pull open the door and step through, the words already there on the tip of my tongue. “I’m so sorry,” I say, my voice low but confident. “I had to step away for a moment. Ms. Sarzó isn’t—”

He turns to face me and the words die in my throat.

I know the instant that he smiles at me—a cocky, sexy half-smile that’s almost a sneer—and shifts his weight so that he’s facing me head-on, giving me a glorious view of what I am certain is a rock-hard body underneath layers of expensive, understated fabrics, that I want him out of here immediately.

He’s been standing here for long enough that the scent of him fills the air—a hint of spicy cologne underneath a pure clean that sends a bolt of electric lust directly between my legs.

My next breath is an undignified gulp, and then I get my shit together…just enough.

“Ms. Sarzó isn’t available for meetings right now,” I say crisply, crossing to my desk and stepping behind it. The closer I get to him, the more he overtakes me—and he hasn’t spoken a word. Male models are in and out of this office on a daily basis, but none of them, not a single one, has ever rocked me like this. Even fully covered by his suit—it must be custom, Italian, no way it came off the rack—his body is muscled, athletic, setting off his razor-sharp jawline.

He considers me with eyes the color of steel. In the sunlight outside, I know they’d be as blue as the ocean. I want to look away—he’s blinding—but I’m not about to give him the satisfaction.

When he finally speaks, his voice is dark and smooth with an edge to it. “She’ll be available for me.”

“I don’t think so,” I say quickly, the heat rising to my cheeks. I don’t know who this man is, or what he thinks he’s doing here, but with each moment that passes I’m desperate for the tension in the air to burst and dissipate.

He leans closer. The expanse of my desk is still between us, but even his slight movement toward me seems to take up all the rest of the space in the room. “And what makes you think that?” The corner of his mouth quirks just slightly, like he might laugh at me.

I open my mouth, then close it again, pressing my lips together. “I’m Catherine Schaffer, Ms. Sarzó’s lead assistant. I canceled all of her meetings for the morning. If you’d like to make an appointment—”

Then he really does laugh, and the sound is as musical as it is calculating. He must be enjoying this. “So you’re a woman with a fiery personality, Ms. Schaffer?” Crossing his arms casually over his chest, he gives me an indulgent look. “I’ll bet you hate to be wrong.”

My eyes narrow. I can’t stop myself—I’m on the verge of bursting out with an indignant reply. He can’t talk to me like this. He can’t look at me like this.