Page 3 of Heir of Ruin
“That’s beside the point. Going solo is against protocol—especially withintimidatingclients.” I swirl my glass, catching boardroom lights in amber liquid. “I might feel pressed to soften my findings.”
There’s a pause.
A beat.
He eyes me over the rim of his tumbler. “You’re intimidated by me, Isla?”
My stomach somersaults, not only at the sound of my given name, but the raw polarization of his focus. It somersaults enough for me to question whether lowering my inhibitions with alcohol is a smart move.
“You know I’m not.” I take another drink, this one bigger, more of a comforting gulp. “But most are.”
His gaze lingers, curious and discerning, as if reading the footnotes of my thoughts. Eventually, he nods. “Hungry?”
“I’m fine. Thanks.” I rotate my ankles, trying to coax blood back into toes imprisoned by new stilettos. “I should head home before these shoes cut off circulation.”
“If they’re uncomfortable take them off.” He lifts the glass for another casual sip. “But you’re not leaving yet. We haven’t caught up in months.”
God, why does his tyranny have to sound so good?
I glower back, wordlessly conveying I willnotbe removing my heels in his million-dollar boardroom under any circumstances.
He smirks, the attention taunting.
I attempt to stare him down, the visual standoff only endeavoring to get me all caught up in those hypnotizing eyes.
“I said take them off, Isla.”
The command skitters down my spine, tickling every nerve. “I’m not?—”
“Off.” He speaks over me, smooth in his dictatorship. “Now.”
This isn’t business. I don’t need to oblige my client. But curiosity, tenacity, and the electric voltage of a sheer thrill has me toeing off my heels.
I refuse to submit on his terms though, so I add a little sass to the situation, rolling my chair backward and propping my feet on his pristine table, right in front of him. “Better?”
His chin lifts a fraction, his attention leisurely trekking from my French-manicured toenails, up the line of my calves. For a moment, he pauses at the hem of my pencil skirt, then his focus climbs to my eyes where it remains, indecipherable and intense.
Shit. I went too far.
“Sorry…” I slide my feet back toward the edge and side-eye the wall of glass giving view to the internal hall of the Cavallo Group office. “That was?—”
“Don’t you dare move.”
Nervousness settles in my limbs, the discomfort of my out-of-character behavior coming back to bite me on the ass. “It’s unprofess?—”
“Consider it a challenge.” He downs the last of his drink. “Impress me. Show me howtheIsla Cross, goddess of propriety, can handle the briefest etiquette meltdown.”
Goddess?
Dear fucking Lord.
Heat creeps up my neck.
But it’s not just the issue of etiquette. It’s the exposure. The way every inch of my legs burn under his scrutiny.
“Finish your drink.” He jerks his chin toward the tumbler cradled in my hands. “I know you need the liquid courage.”
There’s something about the way he takes liberties, too. He’s abrasive, confounding, almost insulting, yet I’m putty in his hands when any other man would’ve had me penning a harassment lawsuit.
