Chapter 2

"Alex, please," Aubree whispered, a final, desperate plea. Her hand was frozen on the doorknob. "You know his rule about gifts. This is-"

"I'm sorry, Aubree." Alex's eyes were full of genuine sympathy, but his stance was unmovable. "He just got back, he's in a foul mood, and his exact words were, 'I want to see them.' I can't help you."

His tone said what his words didn't: You're on your own.

Her heart sank into the soles of her expensive heels. There was no way out. She was trapped.

She turned back to the door, her palm sweating against the cool brass of the handle. She couldn't bring herself to push it open. Her mind raced, a frantic scramble for an excuse, any excuse. Family emergency. Sudden illness. A fire drill. Each one sounded more pathetic than the last.

Then, a wild, insane thought took root.

Run.

Just turn around, shove the box at Alex, and bolt for the elevators. It would be professional suicide, but it felt infinitely better than walking into that office.

She was tensing her muscles, ready to pivot and flee, when a soft cough sounded behind her. It was Alex, a gentle reminder that he was still there, that the entire executive floor was watching.

She closed her eyes, a silent surrender. The escape fantasy evaporated, leaving only the cold, hard reality of the mahogany door.

She pushed it open.

The office was vast, a cavern of glass and steel overlooking the sprawling Manhattan skyline. And there he was. Beck Franco stood with his back to her, a tall, imposing silhouette against the afternoon light. His shoulders were broad beneath his perfectly tailored suit, his posture radiating an unassailable authority.

The room was so quiet she could hear the frantic, rabbit-fast thumping of her own heart.

"Mr. Franco, sir?" Her voice was a reedy whisper.

He turned, slowly. The movement was fluid, controlled, like a predator turning on its prey. His face was a masterpiece of masculine beauty, all sharp angles and unforgiving lines. But it was his eyes that held her captive. They were the color of a storm cloud, gray and intense, and they scanned her with an unnerving precision, as if they could see straight through her skin, through her carefully constructed lies, and into the terrified mess of her soul.

His gaze lingered on her face for a beat too long before dropping to the gift box clutched in her hands.

"This is from Mr. Alistair Rhodes-Prescott," she managed, her voice shaking slightly. "He asked me to deliver it."

Her words hung in the air. An idea, a chance for a quick escape, presented itself.

She stepped forward and placed the box on the corner of his massive desk, a slab of polished ebony that looked like it had been carved from a single tree.

"The gift is delivered," she said, trying to sound brisk and efficient. "If there's nothing else, I'll get back to my desk."

She turned, her body screaming to get out, to put as much distance between them as possible. Her fingers were inches from the doorknob.

"Did I say you could leave?"

The voice was low, dangerously soft, but it stopped her as effectively as a physical blow. Her entire body went rigid.

Slowly, she turned back. He had moved behind his desk and was now seated, his hands steepled in front of him. He looked like a king on his throne, a judge about to pass sentence.

Desperation clawed at her throat. She had to say something, do something to sever this unbearable tension. She opened her mouth to speak, to re-establish the boundary between boss and assistant, but the words wouldn't come.

She took a step back, a clumsy, involuntary retreat. Her heel caught on the edge of the plush rug. She stumbled, a small, undignified lurch.

And then she turned and fled.

She didn't run, not exactly, but her walk was fast, a panicked stride down the silent corridor. She rounded the corner toward the main assistant's bay, her heart hammering against her ribs.

She collided with something solid.

A wall of muscle, unyielding and warm. Strong hands gripped her upper arms to steady her, and she looked up, her breath catching in her throat.

It was Beck Franco.

She stared in horror, not at the door he was supposed to have come from behind her, but at a discreet, flush-mounted panel at the end of the hall she'd never noticed before. It was a private entrance, likely leading to his personal elevator or an adjoining suite. He hadn't chased her; he had anticipated her.

The gift box, which she had inexplicably snatched back from his desk in her flight, slipped from her nerveless fingers. It landed on the carpet with a soft, damning thud.

He bent down, retrieving it in one smooth motion. He glanced at the logo on the wrapping paper, then his gray eyes lifted to lock with hers. They were unreadable, chips of granite.

He didn't speak. He simply tilted his chin toward the office she had just fled. The command was silent, absolute.

In.

Aubree stared into those bottomless eyes and knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that this time, there was truly nowhere left to run.