dozen chess moves in a dozen games simultaneously while lounging behind his desk with his eyes shut. Why she’d think he wouldn’t use such a contingency on this occasion was almost laughable.
But Saffron wasn’t in the mood to laugh.
Her gaze dropped to the case, her stomach knotting tighter. If it’d held a nest of deadly scorpions, she would’ve been more welcoming.
The courier cleared his throat. ‘If I may say so, Miss Everhart, this is no ordinary piece. I believe permission was sought, and given, by Her Majesty for her necklace to be replicated. It’s one of the most exquisite pieces our establishment has had the privilege of creating.’ His tone bordered on reverence, his bewilderment at her reaction evident.
She didn’t doubt him. But the reason for its appearance in her life was blaring thunderously in her ears, blocking everything save for the fact that if she didn’t refuse this, if she delayed taking control of her life, she would be lost for ever. She’d already given four years of her life. Lived on the edge of her emotions. She couldn’t give another day. Another minute.
The man in front of her wasn’t the problem, though. The man seated on his throne-like chair behind the grey steel doors twenty feet from her was.
With brisk efficiency that disguised the churning mix of panic and dread inside her, she signed the delivery document and took possession of the package, knowing in her heart that she was making a huge mistake.
The door shut behind the courier. Saffron remained rooted in place, the box growing heavier with each second. When she could bear it no longer, she returned to her desk, sat down heavily and opened it.
The tiered diamond and ruby necklace was flawless.
Breathtakingly beautiful in a way no blatant bribe from a ruthless, coldly dismissive man had the right to be. At least it wasn’t a choker. That symbolism would’ve been a step too far.
She suppressed a hysterical laugh and stared, awed despite herself, at the most stunning piece of jewellery she’d ever seen in her life. Her fingers itched to caress the precious stones, to experience their sparkling beauty through touch as well as sight.
She snapped the box shut before temptation took hold, and, just like the flowers, set it out of arm’s reach.
She couldn’t...wouldn’t be swayed.
For far too long she’d given herself a pass, let the irresistible enticements of her position, specifically her proximity to the most charismatic man she’d ever encountered, lead her towards that one final act of insanity.
Well...never again.
Jaw gritted in a futile effort to stop the electricity that zapped through her every time she recalled that fateful night in Morocco, she read through the document she’d redrafted a dozen times and hit print.
The whirring sound of the printer spitting out the single sheet was both reassuring and terrifying. She was finally doing this, taking the ultimate step. Soon, she would be in complete control of her life. But first, there was the small problem of getting over this last monumental hurdle.
Saffron had no doubt that it would be a formidable battle.
She picked up the paper, folded it in two and rose.
With a cursory knock, she entered the lion’s den. Just in time to hear the exclusive phone reserved for super-VIP clients ring.
She froze in the doorway, her breathing nosediving as her gaze landed on the man reaching for the silver phone.
Joao Oliviera.
Her boss.
The richest man in the world with looks far outmatching that awe-inspiring title.
Despite the innumerable times she’d entered his domain, Saffron had never quite mastered the awe that possessed her in his presence. She’d just learned to disguise it to the point where she could appear almost dismissive of the endless layers of the powerful, magnetic aura he exuded, the breath-stealing vitality of his six-foot-four frame, his innate ability to strike the most influential leaders dumb with a few well-placed words.
And the feverish electricity of his touch.
No amount of training or self-denial could disguise the fact that Joao Oliviera, with his obscene wealth and good looks, was Midas, Croesus and Ares rolled into one sublime package.
Thick dark brown hair, longer than conventionally acceptable and tipped with the faintest gold, gleamed in the May sunlight slanting through the glass window behind him.
Chiselled cheekbones drew immediate, captivating attention to the olive vibrancy of his face, the uncompromising line of an upper lip neatly counterbalanced by the sinful, sensual curve of his lower lip, and the rugged outline of his faintly shadowed jaw that no amount of shaving could completely smooth.
Startling whisky-gold eyes framed by long, spiked eyelashes completed the magnificent picture.
Those eyes flicked up at her entrance, studied her for a piercing second before he beckoned her with long, elegant fingers. As was his habit, he’d shed his jacket shortly after his day began, leaving the pristine white shirt and Italian-made silk vest that emphasised his racehorse-lean physique on full display.
It was early, barely eight o’clock on a Monday morning, so he hadn’t got around to undoing his cuffs and folding back his shirtsleeves to reveal his brawny forearms. In the giant scheme of breathless hellishness, she took that as a blessing in disguise.
‘Lavinia, I’ve been waiting for your call,’ he drawled into the phone.
And just like that, Saffron was lashed by another whip of her most sinful craving. Over the years she’d battled to suppress her base reactions to almost everything about Joao—save for that one searing night in Morocco. His impressive mental dexterity, his jaw-dropping physique, his superhuman energy, the breathtaking ruthlessness wrapped around a core of unwavering integrity. But the one thing she’d never conquered was her reaction to the deep, intensely sexy, accented voice.
It shot arrows of flaming lust into her during her waking hours, and, with alarming frequency lately, invaded her dreams just as shamelessly. It’d reached the point where she almost dreaded walking into his office.
With any luck, she wouldn’t have to suffer it for much longer.
Saffron shut the door behind her and tuned into the conversation. Regardless of her primary reason for coming into Joao’s office, she had work to do. This morning—and, she suspected, countless more to come—that work involved Lavinia Archer.
At seventy-four, the head of the renowned Archer Group, an empire that comprised Archer Hotels, Archer Brewery, Archer Cruise Liners, Archer Airlines and several more offshoots, had been in control for over three decades.
When rumours had surfaced that Lavinia intended to sell her company to one buyer before her seventy-fifth birthday, Saffron had known it would be catnip to her boss. She’d been proved right when Joao had immediately set out to add the entire Archer empire, valued at thirty-one billion dollars, into his already staggering portfolio.
For the last three months, he’d woven an intricate web around Lavinia Archer, one involving a game of
