What the Greek's Money Can't Buy(7)

                She was in no danger of forgetting; if she did, she had the tattoo on her shoulder to remind her.

                * * *

                Sakis pressed the ‘end’ button on yet another phone call and leaned back against the club seat’s headrest.

                Across from him, the tap-tap of the keyboard filled the silence as his assistant worked away at the ever-growing list of tasks he’d been throwing at her since they’d taken off four hours ago.

                Turning his head, he glanced at her. As usual her face was expressionless save the occasional crease at the corner of her eyes as she squinted at the screen. Her brow remained smooth and untroubled as her fingers flew over the keyboard.

                Her sleek blonde hair was in the same pristine, precise knot it had been when she’d arrived at work at six o’clock this morning. Without conscious thought, his gaze traced over her, again feeling that immediate zing to his senses.

                Her dress suit was impeccable—a black-and-white combination that looked a bit severe but suited her perfectly. In her lobes, pearl earrings gleamed, small and unassuming.

                His gaze slid down her neck, past slim shoulders and over the rest of her body, examining her in a way he rarely permitted himself to. The sight of the gentle curve of her breasts, her flat stomach and her long, shapely legs made his hands flex on his armrests as the zing turned stronger.

                Moneypenny was fit, if a little on the slim side. Despite his slave-driving schedule, not once in the last year and a half had she turned up late for work or called in sick. He knew she stayed in the executive apartment in Pantelides Towers more and more lately rather than return to... He frowned. To wherever it was she called home.

                Again he thanked whatever deity had sent her his way.

                After his hellish experience with his last executive assistant, Giselle, he’d seriously contemplated commissioning a robot to handle his day-to-day life. When he’d read Brianna’s flawless CV, he’d convinced himself she was too good to be true. He’d only reconsidered her after all the other candidates, after purporting to have almost identical supernatural abilities, had turned up at the interviews with not-so-hidden agendas—ones that involved getting into his bed at the earliest opportunity.

                Brianna Moneypenny’s file had listed talents that made him wonder why another competitor hadn’t snapped her up. No one that good would’ve been jobless, even in the current economic climate. He’d asked her as much.

                Her reply had been simple: ‘You’re the best at what you do. I want to work for the best.’

                His hackles had risen at that response, but there had been no guile, no coquettish lowering of her lashes or strategic crossing of her legs. If anything, she’d looked defiant.

                Thinking back now, he realised that was the first time he’d felt it—that tug on his senses that accompanied the electrifying sensation when he looked into her eyes.

                Of course, he dismissed the feeling whenever it arose. Feelings had no place in his life or his business.

                What he’d wanted was an efficient assistant who could rise to any challenge he set her. Moneypenny had risen to each challenge and continued to surprise him on a regular basis, a rare thing in a man of his position.

                His gaze finally reached her feet and, with a sharp dart of astonishment, he noted the tiny tattoo on the inside of her left ankle. The star-shaped design, its circumference no larger than his thumb, was inked in black and blue and stood out against her pale skin.