But the Sunday feature article hadn’t warned of the zing of attraction that had nearly floored her, the aura of power and control that stuck her tongue to the roof of her mouth and turned the words to dust in her throat.
Working at Blackstone’s put her directly in the path of many powerful men. But Jake Vance…It was something in his face, the way his eyes had swept over her even as he tried to keep his perusal impersonal. Call her crazy, but she’d felt the air practically crackle with a weird sort of expectation.
The elevator doors swung open and she pressed the basement button impatiently.
Their gazes had locked just long enough for her to recognise the moment—predatory interest, an almost promissory flame in those deep green eyes. His mouth, a frankly sensual sculpture in warm flesh, had tweaked for a brief second, not enough to be called a smile.
Then he’d shut it down.
The only man in all her twenty-six years who’d forcibly smothered his interest.
No wonder he was at the top of his game. With that much control over his emotions, he was dark, brooding danger in an Italian designer suit. Heaven help a woman if the man ever genuinely smiled.
She curled her lip at the thought. Men in power—those who played God with people’s lives—turned her blood cold.
Like Max Carlton, her soon-to-be ex-boss.
She’d been surprised when he’d approved her temporary transfer to PR eighteen months ago, but she’d had no time to worry if that approval came with strings, not when Blackstone’s ten-year anniversary had been her top priority. Months later she’d been on the team organising Blackstone’s Australian Fashion Week presence. It’d been a chance to show Kimberley Perrini her Blackstone’s-funded studies were paying off, a chance she’d desperately wanted since graduating over a year ago. Then, last week, she’d been pulled from the glamorous event that was the ultimate dream of every Sydney designer to babysit Jake Vance.
She sighed, automatically brushing her hair back from her forehead. If only it were simply a babysitting job.
She finally arrived at the basement and found Jake standing beside a shiny silver Commodore, talking into his mobile phone.
She paused, taking in the perfect snapshot that oozed wealth and class, forcing her heart to slow down, to settle the stupid hitch in her breath. He looked up as she approached and, without pause, opened the back door for her.
Holly blinked. No limo? No uniformed driver? She slid into the creamy leather interior, a niggle of confusion creasing her brow.
Jake got in beside her, his phone call now finished. “Back to the office, Steve.”
The car started with a gentle purr and the driver slid it into first gear, easing out the basement and into the traffic flow. And suddenly Holly realised Jake’s attention was now focused solely on her.
Disturbingly focused attention in an even smaller space than the elevator.
She clicked on her seat belt, ignoring the way his green eyes grazed over her in concentrated study. When she’d first faced him it’d been a stretch to retain her composure. The natural command, the sheer sexuality he exuded had rocketed her pulse. Now in close, almost intimate, quarters, she felt the heated warmth curling up from her toes intensifying.
Here was a man used to getting his own way. He expected acquiescence, demanded it. He crushed anyone in his way.
“Besides the financials, what do you need?” She spoke calmly, that last thought aiding her steely resolve.
“How about you start with the Blackstone history?”
Holly gave him a curious look. “Anything specific?”
“Not particularly. Don’t worry.” His lips curved. “I’ll stop you if it gets boring.”
She blinked at his innocent expression. How could he make that neutral statement sound like such a sinful suggestion?
She concentrated on flicking through her documents to stop herself from flushing. Boring and Jake Vance were planets apart. Of that she was certain.
As Holly talked, Jake listened, carefully analysing not only her words, but her nonverbal cues. As they drove onto Sydney Harbour Bridge he noticed the way her eyes lit up when she recounted the intriguing history of the Blackstones. He knew all this, thanks to his research team. But it was more interesting hearing it from her lips than reading a dry hundred-page report. He asked questions and she expanded on the details, providing answers without hesitation. She knew her stuff.
Yeah, she’s smart and attractive. But she works for Blackstone’s.
He’d been blindsided twice before. Lucy had ripped out his heart when he’d needed her support the most. Seven years later, Mia had used her position as his assistant to violate his trust. He’d quickly learned a harsh lesson: To ensure his utmost privacy, no one was permitted to breach his tight security measures. His company had the strictest security checks, his private life had triple that. It just wasn’t worth everything he’d worked his whole life for.
“Unlike other jewellers, Blackstone’s issues only two glossies every year.”
Focus. One second was all he needed to clear his mind, one second to shove his memories back into the past and concentrate on the here and now.
“Two catalogues,” he repeated.
Holly nodded. “October and January.”
“No Christmas issue?”
“No.Valentine’s Day is our busiest time. We found our clients started shopping for Christmas as early as October. A Blackstone diamond is an investment. It signals superior quality and workmanship, something that women aspire to have, combined with the Australianthe Australian mystique of the outback. Our branding says it all: the simple use of the word ‘heart.’ Some of our previous campaigns were ‘heart felt,’ ‘heart’s desire’ and ‘from the heart.’ This is our most recent issue.” She flipped open her folder. Jake gave it a cursory glance and focused on another magazine on the seat.
“What’s that?”
Holly glanced down. “Our first issue. A collector’s item, actually. There are only twenty existing copies in the world. That’s Howard and Ursula. She’s wearing the Blackstone Rose.”
Unable to help himself, Jake slowly reached for the copy and stared at the cover. Looking every inch its 1976 date, the slim glossy brochure showed a candid but spectacular shot of a young couple in formal evening dress on the steps of the Sydney Opera House. Howard Blackstone in a tux, his wolfish smile triumphant. On his arm, Ursula was dressed in a strapless floor-length creation, her hair piled up into a then-fashionable beehive. The necklace around her neck was large and ostentatious, everything spectacular and showy that he’d come to expect from Howard Blackstone. There were five diamonds—four round stones with a teardrop shaped one dangling in the center. It sat high and heavy on Ursula’s neck like a collar, a symbol of ownership.
The look in Ursula’s face confirmed his impression. She was deeply unhappy. Sure, she smiled, but there was no joy behind it, the emotion in her eyes dull and resigned.
She
