Breathless (18 page)

Oliver was expecting me to stay out here with him, that much was obvious from his arrogant smirk. If I went in the hotel, I’d have the satisfaction—albeit the incredibly brief satisfaction—of proving him wrong. But if I went into the hotel, I’d spend the rest of the day stressing over what he might have wanted from me. Hell, probably the rest of the week. I glanced between them for a moment before my shoulders sagged and I relented.

“I’ll be in there in five minutes,” I promised.

“Take your time,” she said, admiring Oliver one last time before disappearing through the entrance. Fisting my hands by my side, I counted slowly until he finally turned back to me.

“I hadn’t expected you to bring someone,” he stated almost apologetically.

“And I didn’t expect you to be here.”

He digested my words for a second and then released a low laugh that reverberated through me. He nodded to the black Viper parked behind where I stood. “Get in, Lizzie.”

“You could ask me. I get enough commands from your mother throughout the day.”

He stepped closer. “Please, get in the car, Lizzie, before I kiss the fuck out of you right here.”

Piqued, I was already breathing heavily well before my back touched the black leather seat in his Viper. He didn’t give me an opportunity to catch it because as soon as both our doors were securely closed, he leaned over the narrow center console and pressed his face close to mine.

“I can’t do patience to save my life,” he growled, the sweet, cinnamon scent of his gum fanning my face. “I had no intentions of seeing you until
you
came to me, and yet here we are.”

“How did you know I’d be here?”

“Easton.” He let out a low noise when I ran the backs of my fingers over the end of his red tie. “You shouldn’t do that.”

“So I was right?” I moved my hand a little higher, the silky fabric combined with feeling the hard muscles beneath his shirt sending a trail of goose bumps up my arm. “You have him digging into my stuff too?” I couldn’t deny the waver of nervousness in my voice at the thought of him prying too deeply.

That was a toxic recipe for disaster.

“As much as I’d love to know everything about you, no. You don’t have to worry about that happening,” he answered. “But when he was erasing Margaret’s sent box, he saw an email from her to you, threatening you about making Monday happen.”

“And you intervened. You’re the reason Natalie met with me this morning?”

“Guilty.”

I was impressed. Impressed, grateful, and
curious
. What did he have to do for the event planner to convince her to alter her schedule? When I asked him, he lifted a shoulder.

“I’m giving her clients a thirty percent discount off the use of all Manning venues for the next year.” When my mouth parted, he his blue eyes dropped to my lips. “It was a small price to pay.”

First he’d served me lunch and now he’d gone out of his way to make a business meeting happen for me. I had to fight to keep myself from swooning right then and there.

“You make it hard—” I started, but I cut myself off, a deep moan pushing up from the back of my throat as his thumbs stroked my collarbone.

“No, beautiful, you make it fucking hard.” With his free hand, he grabbed my fingers, pressing them to the zipper of his tailored pants. He stifled my gasp, nipping at my bottom lip, then the top. Sheer lust flared within me, constricting my core. “But tell me, what do I make it hard to do? And don’t lie to me.”

I jerked him closer to me by his tie, feeling his cock stiffen against my other hand. Wow. I struggled to find the words I was searching for, and momentarily, the only one that entered my brain was
gifted
. Oliver Manning was incredibly and without a doubt gifted.

When he cleared his throat, I jerked my hand from his zipper, clutching it to my chest like I’d just been scorched. “You make it hard to tell you no,” I finally told him.

“Then maybe you should start saying
yes
.” Lowering his attention to the navigation’s clock on the center console, he groaned. Then, without warning, he untangled himself from me. “Time’s up.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I promised Ms. Marchand five minutes, and I’m a man of my word.”

Is he kidding?

He had to be, right?

But I watched helplessly as he got out the Viper and came around to open the door for me. Taking my hands in his, he pulled me up, making sure that the front of my body brushed up against his so I could feel every inch of what I wasn’t saying
yes
to today.

“That was intentionally cruel,” I said, but he rubbed his thumb over the center of my lips.

“Next time, Lizzie.”

As I stalked into the hotel, my body burning from the few minutes I’d spent inside his sports car, I could feel his blue eyes following me. I gave my hips a practiced extra little sway as payback, and I could just hear his frustrated growl as the door closed behind me.

***

Thanks to a combination of dreams and nightmares that night—everything from Oliver to my father—by eleven the next morning, I already had a massive headache building as I listened to the Emerson & Taylor board of directors meeting. Even though I’d quickly given up the hope that one of the male voices would jump out to me, revealing the identity of the man who’d called me nearly five months ago, I continued to pay close attention from my spot near Margaret where I was recording the meeting and also taking notes.

“…the effectiveness of the winter marketing campaign?” the company’s vice-president was asking Margaret, when she leaned her blond head close to mine.

“We’re recessing for lunch in an hour,” she whispered. “I need you to call the restaurant and make sure the delivery will be here on time.”

“Of course.” As I started to leave, grateful for a breath of air away from the crowded conference room, she grabbed my wrist, her wedding rings cold against my skin. I looked down to see her light blue eyes were narrowed in warning.

“Don’t screw this up, Ms. Connelly.”

I wanted to tell her that I hadn’t screwed up with the event planner yesterday or with any of her travel plans so far, but I gave her a dutiful nod before quietly leaving the conference area. As I started to my desk, the open French doors leading into Margaret’s office, and the laptop sitting on her desk, stopped me in my tracks. I regarded them for several seconds, wavering over whether or not to go in. If she caught me, she’d probably fire me on the spot. Fire me and start digging around for more information about me.

But hell, this moment was too convenient to pass up.

I glanced over my shoulder to make sure I was alone before sneaking inside the office and closing the door.

Sliding into the chair on the other side of her desk, I tapped the MacBook’s keyboard, feeling a rush of excitement when the screen illuminated to reveal the desktop. No password, which was a shock I knew Pen wouldn’t even believe when I told her later. I scanned over the icons—a variety of folders labeled everything from
Fiscal Reports
to
Marketing Plans
to
Charity
.

The one that made my heart drop, though, was the folder titled
Gregory Emerson
.

My father.

I didn’t know what I was expecting to see when I clicked on the icon, but an old picture of my dad and Margaret stared back at me. She was smiling—the first authentic sign of pleasure I’d
ever
seen on my stepmother’s face—with her arms wrapped intimately around him. They were both blond and blue-eyed—though my father’s eyes had been midnight—and I hated to admit they looked happy together. Leaning closer to the screen, I squinted to see that behind them, a banner indicated they were at the 1994 charity event for a local children’s hospital.

I swallowed the lump in my throat before it could finish forming. My father had still been married to my mom at the time.

Wow.

Had she known? Had she realized that my dad might be cheating on her?

Is that what had torn them apart?

I started to click to the next picture, but movement outside the door immediately halted me. When the knob twisted, I quickly exited out the folder and scrambled beneath Margaret’s desk, my heart hammering in my throat as I waited for her to find me hiding, jerk me up by my hair, and start freaking out.

Maybe she’d call security and Carl would shake his balding head in disappointment as they grilled me about what I was doing in her office.

But then I heard a voice that set my blood on fire for entirely different reasons. “Thanks for your concern, Dora, but I swear I can handle it.”

“Oliver,” I heard the HR director whine, but he quickly shut her down.

“Don’t you have payroll to sort through?”

“Don’t be a dick,” she said angrily. “Besides, your mom is in meetings all day. She hates when you go through her things.”

“I don’t mind waiting. She’ll be in here eventually, and I don’t really care if she doesn’t want me here.” When Dora started to interrupt him again, Oliver heaved a deep sigh and promised her, “I’ll listen to everything you have to say about Finley as soon as I speak to my mother about it.”

Finley. The woman Pen had said my boss looked up frequently on her desktop. I’d managed to do a little research on Finley Scott, but the beautiful brunette who’d probably once shared Oliver’s bed was almost a ghost. All I knew was that she was a year and a half older than him and they’d dated on and off for a number of years. Although I wanted to know more, it had seemed like a waste of time to ask my best friend to do research of her own when she was already doing so much for me.

“Oliver, I don’t think you should—” the HR director began, but then the door slammed, causing my chest to tighten in fear.

Were they gone?

Several seconds passed by, and then, to my horror, I realized I wasn’t alone when I heard footsteps drawing closer to me.

“You can come out.” Despite the heavy, betraying thud of my heartbeat, and the ringing in my ears, Oliver’s voice—spoken directly to me—was something I couldn’t ignore.

“Get your ass out here.” This time his smooth voice was low and undeniably dangerous. “I can smell you, Lizzie. You’re the only one in this building with that perfume. And it makes me think of...”

Think of what?

What the hell did the Bvlgari scent make him think of?

He was cutting himself off intentionally, baiting me with the unknown, and if not for my gasp for air, he might have given up. But I did breathe. And he took it as an invitation to continue.

“That perfume makes me think of fucking you. Everywhere.
Anywhere
. Your scent is a distraction, so I’m asking you again: Come out and tell me why the hell you’re under there.” The sound of his footsteps approaching Margaret’s desk continued. “Or maybe I should just call security to drag you out.”

Holy fucking shit.

End of UNCOVERED: Part One.

Part 1 to 3 Available Now In One eBook!

About the Author

Emily Snow is
The New York Times
and
USA Today
bestselling author of the
Devoured
and
Savor Us
series,
Tidal
, and
Wrecked
. She loves books, sexy bad boys, and really loud rock music, so naturally, she writes stories about naughty rockers. Visit her blog at
emilysnowbooks.blogspot.com
or chat with her on Twitter
@emilysnowbks
for news, teasers, and contests.

For my husband, the best beta reader a girl could have. You’re my Viking, for reals, babe. I love you.

Chapter 1

Nora

“A question that sometimes drives me hazy: am I or are they crazy?” –
Albert Einstein

Weissnichtwo.

Yeah, that’s not an easy word to say. Yet these often mispronounced staccato syllables have been ticking in my brain like the click of my piano teacher’s metronome for the past fifteen minutes . . . 
weiss-nicht-wo, weiss-nicht-wo, weiss-nicht-wo
. I tapped my fingers to the beat.

This obscure word was coined by Thomas Carlyle in his satirical work
Sartor Resartus
, so it’s not surprising the organizers selected it for the Belltone National Spelling Bee. Even the best speller might be thrown off by it, maybe because the /w/ is pronounced as a Germanic /v/ or maybe they make the rookie mistake of forgetting to capitalize the beginning.

But four years ago, I’d made no mistake at that renowned spelling bee. I’d been perfect, since screwing up was not allowed in my family. In my last year to compete and at the age of fourteen, I’d nailed
Weissnichtwo
, beating out the pimply, homeschooled kid from Rhode Island in round six.

My IQ tested at 162 and most considered that genius level. Yet, I still had to work my ass off for the spelling bee, studying the two-hundred-page word list and thirty thousand flash cards for two hours a day, four days a week. For an entire year. In those days, I was quick to remind people that Einstein was a proven horrible speller.

My mother snapped her fingers in my face. “Nora Grace, please stop slumping and sit up. Good posture improves your overall attractiveness. You know this.”