Page 34 of Mario
She seems a bit irritated at my amusement, and it only deepens it.
She removes her hands from the keyboard and stands. “I was hoping to schedule an initial interview with you at some point today.”
“Were you?” I repeat.
“I was planning,” she corrects, and I watch the smallest flicker of frustration cross her face. Not at me; at herself.
Victoria Murray does not like revealing more than she intends.
It’s a feeling I understand.
I step farther into the office, leaving the door open behind me. Her gaze flicks to the opening, then back to me.
Still thinking about boundaries.
I should be as well.
The office suits her better than I expected. I chose it because it is far enough from mine to be proper and close enough that I will know when she is here. Lorenzo noticed this, because Lorenzo notices everything.
He was amused endlessly after they left yesterday, and he picked it right back up this morning.
Victoria’s briefcase sits on the desk, the leather a rich cognac, structured and elegant. Not new enough to look untouched, but new enough that she still treats it with care. Her laptop is open. Folders arranged neatly. Pens aligned beside a notebook. One of her business cards sits in the holder near the edge of the desk.
She is wearing a dark green suit today. It’s warmer against her skin than yesterday’s gray. Her chestnut-brown hair is swept back again, smooth at the crown, gathered low. A few strands soften near her temple, and I wonder whether they came loose in the car or if she left them there deliberately.
Either way, it was a mistake.
Mine, for noticing.
Her blouse is cream silk, buttoned high enough to be appropriate and fitted well enough to bring my attention where it should not be. Small gold earrings. A watch with a narrow band. No unnecessary jewelry. No bright lipstick, only something soft and neutral on a mouth that has already proven too distracting.
She looks exactly as she wants to look.
Capable. Composed. Difficult to dismiss.
She does not know that everything she chose to make herself look untouchable only makes me want to see what it would take to disturb her.
That thought should end here.
It does not.
“Is now inconvenient?” I ask.
“For the interview?”
“Yes.”
She glances at her laptop. “IT has not finished setting up my access.”
“They will wait.”
“I’m sure they will,” she says, and the dryness in her voice is subtle enough that most men would miss it.
There’s nothing about her I miss.
My mouth almost curves.
“Would you like to sit?” she asks.
