tissue.
“Hold on, let me get another.” Her heart pounded as she got to touch him again, cleaning the last trace from the crease of his smile.
Deliberate throat-clearing drew their attention as Dora reentered with a second tray of samples. Her face twisted into an expression of amusement concealed with considerable effort. Sara realized it might well look as if she was wiping her own lipstick from the lips and cheek of her boss.
What a thought.
She shoved the oily tissue into her pocket and snatched the second tray of samples. She half expected Elan to make it brusquely clear that nothing had happened. Nothing had happened. But he stood, languid in the center of the room, challenging his employee to make what she would of the scene.
Sara made a fuss of rearranging the papers on the desk to make room for the second basket. “Thank you, Dora.” The woman nodded and turned for the door, lips primly pressed together.
The door closed behind Dora. Sara turned to Elan and saw a smile glittering in his eyes.
“She believes we were kissing,” he said. The throaty rumble of his voice, and the suggestion in his words, made her body tremble slightly. She was perilously close to the edge of the cliff.
“No danger of that,” she replied quickly. “Would you like a tissue to clean your finger?”
“Thanks.”
She retrieved the tissue, but as she went to hand it to him he merely extended his finger. His gaze met hers and she read a challenge in it.
She wrapped the tissue around his finger, then took hold of his wrist in her other hand to hold it steady. Currents of dangerous energy snaked up her arm from where her fingers circled around his pulse point.
She wiped until his finger was clean, but she was reluctant to let go. Touching Elan was a sweet thrill she wanted to prolong. She dabbed at his skin again as the fingers of her other hand curved under his to support the firm flesh of his palm.
Stop it, Sara! You’re playing with fire. Flammable liquids and flammable emotions are not a good combination.
She pulled her hands away and threw the tissues into the wastebasket. Elan remained silent and she sneaked a glance at him. He watched her with an odd expression in his dark eyes.
“I’ll read your speech at my desk,” she said, gathering the scattered papers. He nodded. She hurried out of the room and closed the door softly behind her, her heart hammering and her mind whirling.
Wanting Elan was taboo. Touching him forbidden. He was unavailable, off-limits. They had a contract, clearly stated. So why was it so easy to imagine his warm breath on her throat, the pressure of his palms on the curve of her waist?
She had a career to build and she wanted to take on more responsibilities. She wanted more influence in the company, and she knew it was hers for the taking.
And she wanted Elan.
The two impulses were opposing, one canceled out the other. To act on her feelings for her boss would be to end her career at this company. That had been made perfectly plain to her on her first day at the job.
She was still on trial.
One week down, three to go.
“What on earth is this?” Elan looked at her, one eyebrow raised in astonishment as he surveyed the expensive new black leather bump on his chair.
“A lumbar support cushion. It helps to keep your back in a comfortable position. I notice you stretch your spine a lot and I thought this might help prevent it getting kinked up in the first place.”
Because frankly, I can’t watch you stretch and flex like that even one more time and keep the last shreds of my tattered sanity.
He reached out and prodded it with his long, powerful fingers as if it might have a life of its own. “Hmph.”
“It’s on trial. It goes back if you don’t like it. I didn’t file the expense report yet.” She turned and took the watering can to the row of shiny, dark green plants she’d bought to soften the austere atmosphere of his office.
She hadn’t expected him to be thrilled. Surprise and confusion were the emotions she seemed to conjure in Elan with her little extracurricular gestures, though he did a fair job of hiding it.
Maybe she was trying too hard. She’d spent half her Saturday at the gadget store looking at products designed to ease executive stress. She had other ideas for things he might like, but she didn’t want to overdo it.
She heard him settle into the leather chair and couldn’t resist turning around to catch his reaction. She was annoyed to find herself pathetically hoping to see him smile. He approached the day with grim determination that only tickled her irrational instinct to say or do something totally inappropriate—so she could watch his stony facade crack and catch a glimpse of what lay beneath.
Not so smart. That wasn’t what she was here for.
Turned, she saw him sitting uncomfortably in the newly altered chair, brows arched, eyes fixed on her feet.
Uh-oh, no shoes. “Sorry, my shoes were killing me. I’ll go put them on.”
Elan cleared his throat. “There’s no need. It’s the end of the day and only you and I are here. You may dress as you wish.”
She mentally spanked herself for finding even the most innocent words suggestive when they emerged from Elan’s wide, sensual mouth. “Thanks.” She forced a polite smile to her lips.
He shifted in the chair as if negotiating a large pea under his mattress.
“You hate it, don’t you?”
“I don’t hate it, I’m merely unaccustomed to it.” He sat up straight and squared his broad shoulders against the chair in a way that made Sara’s stomach quiver.
She wrenched her eyes back to the plants and poured water onto the decorative gravel she’d used to cover the soil. The glossy leaves brought life to the room. It was almost cheerful now, especially since she’d convinced him to let her move in a couple of stunning abstract paintings that had languished in a little-used conference room.
“Sara.”
Her breath caught—as always—at the sound of her name in his low, husky voice. “Yes?” She continued watering, resisting the urge to turn and look at him.
“It’s not your job to water plants in my office, or to make my chair more comfortable.” The odd tone of his voice made her look up.
“I know, I just…” She didn’t really know exactly what she was doing. Going the extra mile or something.
“Just as I don’t expect you to make my coffee, I don’t expect you to concern yourself with such trivialities. It’s late and you have a home to go to.”
She flinched at the stab of pain she felt at his rejection of her efforts. She had only herself to blame. He hadn’t asked for any of it.
“I’m
