run away from her life in Tokyo. She wasn’t proud of the fact, but she couldn’t deny it, either. And in those two years, she’d continued to run—from one point on the globe to another, one temporary assignment to another. But no matter how far or how fast she ran, she never managed to outdistance the heartache.
Could a woman who’d been hurt so deeply by someone she’d loved ever learn to love again? She only knew that, after two years, it was time to stop running, to make a stand, to start her life again. A task made decidedly more difficult by her current lack of employment.
She sighed and tossed the useless newspaper into the recycle bin under her desk.
She wanted the job at Classic. It would be interesting, challenging and rewarding. And, as an added bonus, the project manager was quite a hunk.
Yummy, she couldn’t help thinking again, and realized she should have been prepared for the possibility that Steven Warren shared his brother’s good looks. But she’d thought of Richard as Jenny’s husband for so long now, she’d almost forgotten how attractive he was. Coming face-to-face with Steven had been quite the reminder—and a reminder that, though her heart might still be in pieces, her body was starting to show signs of life again.
She didn’t think Steven was quite as tall as Richard—probably just shy of six feet, she would guess, which meant that he still towered over her five-foot-two-inch frame. But he was as broad across the shoulders as his brother, and a little more…built, she thought was the term. Samara had never been attracted to sculpted bodies, but there was something about Steven’s strong muscles, evident even beneath the shirt and tie he wore during her interview, that made her mouth water. Yeah, the hormones were definitely alive and kicking.
She knew he was younger than his brother by half a dozen years, which put his age at thirty-five. She would have guessed he was older. Maybe it was the responsibilities of marriage and children that made him seem so, or perhaps it was the grief of losing his wife that had etched those lines around his deep-blue eyes and put the flecks of gray in his thick, dark hair. The loss of someone close always left scars, visible or not.
Jenny had told her about the death of Steven’s wife—how she’d died unexpectedly of a brain aneurysm, leaving Steven a widower and a single parent to their two children. The man’s life had been completely upended, responsibilities had been dumped on his shoulders beyond anything she’d ever had to manage, and she should focus on that rather than on the fact that he also had a first-class butt, eyes that made her want to melt at his feet, and a sensuously sculpted mouth that tempted her to forget he was a father and remember only that he was a man.
It made her question whether working at Classic would be such a good idea after all. Of course, that was assuming he offered her the job, and while she was keeping her fingers crossed, she wasn’t ready to assume any such thing.
He’d promised to be in touch by the end of the week, so Samara wasn’t surprised when he called Thursday afternoon, though she was surprised by the little quiver in her belly when she recognized his voice.
“Hi, Samara. It’s Steve Warren calling,” he said, as if the pounding of her heart against her ribs hadn’t already given his identify away.
“Hello, Steven,” she said, pleased that she managed to respond in a level tone that belied her nervousness.
“I’m calling to offer you the job as senior photographer of features at Classic.”
Relief flood her system in a wave, followed closely by excitement and anticipation. This was it. All she needed was a chance to prove what she could do, and he was giving it to her.
“Thank you.” Her damp palm clamped tighter around the receiver. “I promise you won’t be disappointed.”
“I’m counting on you to deliver on that promise,” her new boss told her.
“When do you want me to start?” she asked, anxious to pin down the details before he could change his mind.
He chuckled in response to her eager question. “Monday, if that’s not too soon.”
“Monday is perfect.”
“Good. I’ll see you then.”
But Samara was too excited to wait until Monday.
She wanted to check out the studio where she would be working, meet the people she’d be working with, and she wanted to see Steven again, to reassure herself that the immediate hormonal reaction she’d experienced at their first meeting was a fluke.
He was dressed more casually today—in jeans and a collared T-shirt, and it looked like he’d forgotten to shave. He looked like a man would look on a comfortable Saturday morning—a little bit rumpled, a lot sexy.
Okay, so the hormone thing was still a problem, but not one that she would let interfere with her job.
He glanced up from a stack of papers, obviously startled by her knock at the door—and by her presence in his office. “What are you doing here, Samara?”
“I was in the neighborhood,” she began, then shook her head. “Actually, I made a point of being in the neighborhood because I wanted to stop in and say a personal thank-you for giving me an opportunity with this job.”
“You can thank me by working your magic with the camera,” he told her.
“I will,” she promised, coming farther into the room. “In the meantime, how about a large double-shot?”
He accepted the proferred cup. “How did you know how I like my coffee?”
“I asked your assistant,” she admitted. “I called from the lobby when I got here, to make sure you were in your office, and Carrie told me your preference.”
“Did she also tell you that I missed a couple of days this week because my son was home sick?”
“No,” Samara said. “I hope it wasn’t anything serious.”
“Just a touch of a flu bug. But I’m a little behind schedule right now and—”
“I’m in your way,” she guessed.
“A little.”
She took a step back toward the door. Though her lips curved, he could tell it was a practiced smile and he was sorry to see that some of the sparkle had dimmed in her eyes, sorrier still to know he was responsible for it.
“I’ll get out of your way then,” she said, and started to turn.
He should let her go. He wasn’t ready to confront the feelings she stirred inside of him just by being in his office. But he also knew it wasn’t fair to blame her for the unexpected and irrational response of his hormones to her presence, and he didn’t want her to go away mad.
He pushed away from his desk and caught her before she reached the door. “I didn’t mean for you to rush off,” he lied.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I shouldn’t have assumed you would have free time to show me around. I’m just so excited about the opportunity you’ve given me that I wanted to get my bearings so I can get right to work on Monday.”
“Well,
