Whitfield.
It was often said that the CEO of Whitfield Industries was as handsome as he was controlled. Mostly, Emma had taught herself to ignore it, to focus on work. But tonight, standing outside the glass wall of his office for the last time, she let herself notice everything about him.
He was tirelessly poring over the files on his desk. His charcoal-gray jacket hung on the back of his chair, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up his tanned forearms. He’d loosened his red silk tie enough to pop the top button of his collar. Behind him, the lights of Los Angeles twinkled like fallen stars, but he kept his head down and his back to the million-dollar view. His modern, masculine office was lit only by his desk lamp and his computer screen, his preferred lighting scheme once the sun had set.
Max had always reminded her of a panther—beautiful and predatory and not to be underestimated. It wasn’t just his ebony hair and amber eyes, but the way he moved, lithe and graceful. Purposeful. No wasted movement. The constant threat of danger, even in repose.
He was the kind of man who made a woman wonder—when she unwrapped him, would she find that slick, urbane control went all the way to the core, or did it hide something more dangerous, something desperate to be unleashed?
In her fantasies, she vacillated between the two extremes—sometimes imagining him as a fiery, insatiable lover, sometimes ice-cold and bossy, controlled throughout.
And tonight, she intended to find out which version of Max was real.
She set her tote on his admin assistant’s desk—Sherri had left over an hour ago—and pulled out her employment contract. Here goes nothing. Squaring her shoulders, she stepped forward.
Max looked up sharply when she knocked, but the tightness in his jaw faded when he recognized her, and he motioned for her to enter. With a glance at his watch, he added, “I didn’t realize it was so late. What can I do for you, Emma?”
She covered her disappointment at his lack of reaction to her new look with a smile she hoped was more come-hither than professional.
His desk wasn’t ornate—the clean, simple lines of black onyx had always struck Emma as sleek and powerful, like the man who sat behind it. On a usual day, this would be the point where he launched into a rapid-fire series of orders, but tonight he said nothing, regarding her with the infamous poker face that Emma knew hid all manner of secrets.
She was careful not to let her hands shake as she set the contract on top of the files in front of him.
He ignored it, didn’t even glance down. Just stared at her from across the expanse of his desk, hypnotic golden eyes boring into hers with the intensity she’d come to associate with him. Max Whitfield didn’t do anything halfway.
“You didn’t sign it.”
It wasn’t a question.
She didn’t ask how he knew.
Max hadn’t taken his family’s scandal-ridden company from the brink of bankruptcy to a tech juggernaut within the span of five years by not knowing how to read people.
Only then did she realize she’d given herself away and was absently twisting the plain silver band on her middle finger. She dropped her hands and lifted her chin.
“So you’re really going through with this?”
“If by this, you mean quitting, then yes. I’m really going through with this.” Emma pushed a small metal statue of a horse’s head with a mane of flames out of the way so she could perch a hip on the corner of his desk before she crossed her left leg over her right. It was a bold move, not one she’d ever made before, but this was a now-or-never situation—and she was Team Now, all the way. At least until he cocked an eyebrow at the liberty she’d just taken.
Her heart thudded in slow, thick beats as he trailed his imperious gaze down her body and let it linger for a moment too long on her knee, making her excruciatingly aware of how far her dress had slid up her thigh when she’d sat.
God, if having his eyes on her could make her feel this good, she couldn’t wait to get his hands on her.
She waited patiently until he’d looked his fill and flicked his attention back to her face.
The raw power of him made Emma’s skin hum with potential, but she faced down the electricity’s source. Max didn’t respect cowards. He lived in a world of high-stakes negotiations where death was preferable to shows of weakness.
“I don’t know what more I can say.”
“That’s easy,” Max countered, leaning back in his chair. “Say you’ll stay.”
The statement hung between them, suspended in air so thick it brushed against her skin and left goose bumps in its wake. They’d always had chemistry. Since the first time they’d laid eyes on one another. And with the same sardonic expression on his face as he wore now, he’d given her the research and development job she’d so brazenly demanded. In the space of a handshake, the sexual awareness bubbling between them had been leashed, muzzled and banished by unspoken agreement to the dungeon of professionalism.
But ever since she’d handed in her notice three weeks ago, and he’d countered with the very generous terms outlined in the unsigned contract she’d just placed on his desk, the sensual beast had awoken, prowling in the shadows, growing bolder, encroaching more often and more forcefully as their time together drew to an end. And tonight, she was going to let it loose.
Emma didn’t move. And this time she would not speak first.
There was a note of respect in his voice when he conceded. “What will it take?”
“I’m sorry?”
“How much? Name your price.”
It was as close to begging as she’d ever heard him get. She didn’t like the answering flutter in her chest that made her want to stay. Max had a way of taking control, and she couldn’t afford to let him. Not tonight.
“This isn’t a negotiation. I don’t have a price.”
Max steepled his fingers, looking like every titan of industry in every anti-capitalist movie ever made. “Everyone has a price.”
Her answering laugh was tinged with scorn. “Really, Max? Resorting to tired clichés already? I’d always credited you with more stamina than that.”
The slow grin that dawned across his handsome features stirred something deep and primal in her belly, a silent refutation of her verbal jab that let her know that he could more than provide whatever she needed for as long as she needed it. It was a rare smile for him, not the feral one he used for business, but the charming one that slipped out sometimes when he was genuinely amused.
“What can I say? I have a deep appreciation for the classics.” Max dropped his hands, then sat forward in his chair. “Now, get off my desk. You don’t work here anymore.”
Emma had already followed the command before she realized she’d done it. Dammit. No retreat, she reminded herself, straightening the seams of her black pencil skirt, wishing the slit was a little more daring, achingly aware of the garters beneath. Ignoring the implied dismissal, she crossed her arms
