Heating Up the Holidays 3-Story Bundle(5)

“I would have liked that,” I say, my voice matching his crankiness, “but the staff gave me the impression they thought I was the newest chick chasing the millionaire CEO.”

The tension vanishes from his face, and a low, sexy rumble of laughter slides from his lips. Instantly, I find myself relaxing into the sound. “You aren’t going to be a wilting flower, are you?”

“Do you want a wilting flower?”

“No. I do not want a wilting flower, Ms. Miller. Nor do I want a ‘chick chasing the millionaire CEO.’ I’ll end that perception immediately.”

“It’s not a big deal,” I say, softening with his vow.

He, on the other hand, seems to do the opposite, his humor fading, the hardness returning. “Actually,” he corrects, “it is. I’m leaving, and you have to be able to function when I’m gone.”

“I will,” I say, certain he needs to hear this, though I don’t know why. “You can trust me to get the job done.”

There is a slight tensing of his jaw that I read as skepticism. The car engine starts and he proves I’m right in my assessment by declaring, “I have concerns about you, Ms. Miller.”

Cotton lines my throat. “Concerns?”

“You’re a reporter.”

“By trade, yes.”

“You’ve never worked as a secretary,” he comments, and it’s not a question.

“Do you want just a secretary or someone with extra skills to bring to the table?”

“Clearly, you excel at asking questions and not answering them.”

“You didn’t phrase it as a question, and zipped lips should be one of my job requirements anyway.”

His cell beeps and he pulls it from his pocket, staring at the text message for what seems like forever. Finally, without typing a reply, he sets the phone on the seat and his gaze goes to the window.

Seconds tick by, and I can almost feel the tension curling in and around him, thickening the air until I can barely breathe. I wonder how he can. “Everything okay?” I ask softly.

His gaze shifts to me, and his eyes are steely hard and impossible to read. “Do you gamble, Ms. Miller?”

“Badly,” I admit, unsure where this abrupt change of topic is taking us. “And only when I have no other option.”

“Well, here’s the only sure thing you’ll get in Vegas and this job: Something is always not okay. You either deal with it or you crash and burn.”

“And you deal with it,” I say, admiring him for the strength that takes, in a way I once might not have.

“Yes. I deal with it.” He scrubs his hand over his jaw, and when he refocuses on me, his eyes are clearer; his worry over whatever that text said is contained. “Let’s cover the basics. When you get back to the hotel, go to the front desk and have them page Terrance. He’s the head of security for my entire operation, and he’ll be expecting you. He’ll ensure you have everything you need to start work tomorrow.”

“Yes, okay. Terrance. Got it.”

“Now let’s cover when to contact me, what’s urgent and what’s not, and who to go to if you can’t reach me.”

I nod and realize I left my notebook by the testing station in the temp service. I retrieve my phone from my purse. “I’m going to record this, if you don’t mind.”

Suddenly his hand is covering mine, heat climbing up my arm, and I could breathe if his knee hadn’t somehow ended up pressed to my leg. For a moment we just sit there, and I am frozen by the look in his eyes and still warm all over.

“No recording,” he says, and there is a raspy quality to his voice that could be anger or something else I don’t dare kid myself exists. “Not now or ever.”

“I … yes. Or, no. I wasn’t. I’m not. I need this job. I’ll use my notepad on my phone instead.”

“No.” He takes my cell from my hand, but he doesn’t move away. “You won’t.”

“I don’t want to forget—”

“You won’t.” He sits back abruptly and lifts his knee from mine, then reaches into his briefcase and hands me a pad and pen. “Write it down.”

I nod. “Yes. I didn’t have time to prepare, or—”

“We only have about ten more minutes. Write, Ms. Miller.”

My lips thin; my spine stiffens. I have no idea what was in that text message, but he hasn’t banked his reaction to it as I’d thought. He’s harder now, colder. It’s as if a block of ice went up between us. He is the arrogant, demanding boss I expected him to be, but I will not cower. “Understood,” I say, clicking my pen. “I’m ready.”

He wastes no time wondering if I really am ready. He begins spilling out information, and I can’t write fast enough to get it all down.

We are just pulling in to the terminal when he says, “We need to exchange phone numbers.” Then, to my shock, he grabs my phone and takes the liberty of typing his number into it before handing it back to me.

I accept it, careful not to touch him, and I am almost certain that he is careful, as well. “What’s your number?” he asks.

“It’s still a Texas number,” I warn before reciting it.

He puts it into his address book and then glances at me. “When are you getting a Vegas number?”