shirt. And yet, prompted a little rogue voice, she looked as firm as a succulent peach. And her face … that was something he realised now he hadn’t really given much time to study, seeing her only as someone employed to do his bidding, but now, much to his chagrin, his gaze wanted to stop and linger. Look properly. Take in the surprisingly graceful curve of a well-defined cheekbone. Aristotle’s blood was starting to heat up; with a kind of desperation he noted that she wore glasses, as if that might have the effect of a cold douche on his suddenly raging hormones.
It didn’t. He battled with his libido but it seemed determined to confound him, and he wondered what on earth was precipitating this reaction when Lucy had worked for his company for two years already. He’d only met her intermittently in that time, as she’d worked for his legal counsel, and she certainly hadn’t had any discernible effect on him then. But now she was his assistant, and a welcome relief after dealing with a succession of simpering, moon-eyed idiots.
With that in mind, he called on all his powers of logic to explain the bizarre anomaly of his physical reaction, and finally felt some equanimity return: he was a red-blooded male, he was bound to respond arbitrarily to some women, even only passably attractive ones.
Except this wasn’t the first time: he uncomfortably recalled one morning when he’d stepped into the staff elevator, because his own private one had been closed for repairs. Someone had run to stop the doors closing and launched themselves into the lift with such force that they’d careened into him. He’d felt every contour and curve of a very lush female body plastered against his for a second. It had been Lucy.
The memory seared him now. She’d been as curvaceous as something brought to life from a painting by Rubens, and the minute she’d walked into his office to interview for this job he’d remembered that moment in annoyingly vivid detail. Right now all he could think about was how she’d felt pressed against him. Especially when compared to the more sparingly built Augustine Archers of this world.
Lucy Proctor had shown no hint of remembering the moment in the lift, though, and Aristotle certainly wasn’t going to admit to such a chink in his own legendary control. But when she sat in front of him now, the vision of her thighs straining against that too-tight skirt on the periphery of his vision, he could feel his body responding to her with a strength that disturbed him—a strength almost beyond his control …
The object of his uncharacteristic pondering looked up then quizzically, clearly wondering why he wasn’t saying anything. Irrational rage rushed through him. He wasn’t used to being rendered speechless like this. But in that moment, as if to compound every other revelation, he noticed she had the most unusually coloured eyes: a dark slaty grey that was almost blue, framed with the longest blackest lashes. Her mouth opened, as if to speak, and entirely against his will his eyes moved down. He’d not noticed until now that she had a sizeable gap between her front teeth. It was all at once innocent and unbelievably erotic.
Shocking and out of nowhere Aristotle had a sudden vision of those lips wrapped around a part of his anatomy, those almond-shaped eyes looking up into his as she—Lust exploded into his brain and turned everything red.
Lucy looked up at her boss and her mouth went dry. Her pulse, which had finally started slowing down, picked up pace again and she could feel herself grow hot. He was looking at her with such intensity that for a moment she thought—Instantly she shut down those rogue thoughts, and as if she’d imagined it the lines in his face tightened. He was positively glowering at her. Inwardly she quivered, outwardly she clung onto her poise and acknowledged that it was no wonder his adversaries hadn’t ever got the better of him.
‘Sir?’ she said, thankful that her voice sounded cool and calm, unruffled.
He kept glowering at her for another long moment, and Lucy felt inexplicably as if some sort of battle of wills she was unaware of was going on.
Eventually he bit out, ‘I think you can start calling me Aristotle.’
His voice sounded rough. She guessed it must be the remnants of his anger at the recent scene, but even so Lucy’s belly quivered. She knew some close colleagues called him Aristotle, and she’d heard the beautiful blonde requesting breathily to speak to Ari’ when she’d phoned before the dramatics this morning, but the thought of addressing this man by his first name was having a seismic effect on her whole body.
‘Very well,’ she finally managed to get out. But couldn’t bring herself to actually say it.
Aristotle sat down as if he hadn’t just invited her to call him something far more intimate than Sir, or Mr Levakis, and proceeded to dictate with such lightning speed that it took all of Lucy’s wits and concentration to keep up. In truth she was glad of the distraction, but by the time he was done her head was ringing.
He dismissed her with a brusque flick of his hand, his head already buried in some paperwork, and Lucy stood up. She was at the door when she heard a curt, ‘Oh, and see to it, please, that Augustine Archer is sent something …’
Lucy turned around, and the look of dark cynicism she saw on Levakis’ face made her draw in a breath.
‘… suitable.’
Lucy looked at him, nonplussed for a moment. Her previous boss had never made such a request. Did he mean …?
As if he could read her mind, Aristotle said ascerbically, ‘That’s exactly what I mean. I don’t care who you call, just make sure it’s expensive, anything but a ring, and send it over with a note. I’ll e-mail you the address.’
Lucy’s hand was clutching the door, and she didn’t know why this feeling of something like disappointment was curling through her. Anyone with half a brain cell would have been able to tell her this was exactly how a man like him operated. And wasn’t it confirmation of another rumour about him?
How well he compensated his lovers? But still … he wasn’t even taking the time to compose a note himself.
She forced herself to sound non-committal. ‘How would you like the note to read?’
He shrugged one broad shoulder and smiled sardonically, cruelly. ‘Make it up. What kind of platitude would you like to hear from a man who has just dumped you?’ His mouth twisted even more. ‘I think it’s safe to say that someone like Ms Archer will throw away the card and move straight to the main prize, so I wouldn’t worry about it too much. Just keep it as impersonal as possible.’
Shock at his cold words impacted Lucy right in her belly. Her face must have given something away, because Aristotle lounged back in his chair and looked at her with a dangerous gleam in those fascinating green eyes.
‘You don’t approve of my methods?’
Lucy could feel a tide of heat climb up from her chest. She alternately shook and nodded her head, and some garbled words came out. ‘Not at all …’ She realised what she’d said and groaned inwardly when she saw a flash of something dark cross his face. She could not let her own personal opinion of his behaviour jeopardise this job. Too much now depended on her wages.
She gestured clumsily. ‘I mean, I have no problem doing as you suggest. Your methods … are your methods. It’s not for me to judge.’
He sat up and raised a brow, and Lucy wondered dismally how on earth they had got onto this. She wanted to be back outside, with a wall and door between them, catching her breath and restoring her equilibrium, not discussing how best to let his mistress down.
But
