The VIP Room(55)

The painting looked so out of place surrounded by the starkness of grey and steel.

“Mr. Blackwell will see you, Ms. Travis. Go straight through,” came the receptionist’s voice, a slight edge to it.

“Thank you,” I said, nodding at her before swinging my gaze towards the steel doors. My palms were slick from nerves, but I took a deep breath. Tristan Blackwell shouldn’t have power over me. I was being ridiculous feeling this way. But every time I thought that, an image of me naked, on his floor, with red knees came back to me and I felt helpless and used all over again.

No. I wouldn’t let him have power over me here, whether he was a client or not.

My hand pushed down the door handle and I stepped through. It was on a spring, so it automatically closed behind me and I was forced further into the office.

My eyes immediately sought out Tristan. As I suspected, he wasn’t on a conference call. Instead, he looked unbelievably handsome sitting behind his desk in a crisp white button-up, with the sleeves rolled back. He was reading through a stack of papers, but when I entered the office, his eyes were suddenly on me. His gaze hit me like a sledgehammer and just like that, the tension between us rose. It was tangible; I could feel every pulsing wave of it.

He dropped the papers. I had his full attention.

“Noelle,” he greeted, his lips quirking.

I cleared my throat, hoping that my expression was one of indifference and not one of frustrated desire. Because despite everything, he was still one hot son of a bitch.

“I need to measure the dimensions of your office, Mr. Blackwell,” making sure to put extra emphasis on his title. “For my firm’s 3-D rendering program. And I’ll need to take a few photographs, if you don’t mind.”

“By all means, take as many photographs as you like.”

I was determined not to blush at the obvious innuendo in his tone. He was determined to get under my skin, it seemed.

I didn’t answer. Instead, I moved around his office, taking in the large windows that revealed an amazing view of the city. The space was bare, save for his desk, two sturdy chairs across from it, and a neat line of cardboard boxes lined up against the left side of the office.

Tristan must’ve seen me eyeing them because he said, “Didn’t make much sense buying cabinets when you will probably change them anyway.”

“You leave confidential bank documents in boxes on the floor?” I asked, quirking an eyebrow. “Whatever would your customers think of you?”

He grinned, but it was a predatory smile, the smile he no doubt used in business negotiations. “I can assure you that all of those documents are locked up tight. I would never compromise my customers’ information.”

I’d never really thought about Tristan as the Blackwell family heir. I’d never really thought about him as a businessman, but his success was undeniable. Or, at least that’s what Larene told me. She’d done a report on the Blackwells back in college. Their family stretched back generations and their wealth seemed to increase exponentially with every passing year. They were at the top of the top 1% and Tristan was the successor to it all.

It was mind boggling. I couldn’t even imagine the pressure of it. Although looking at him now, remembering all of his womanizing Larene and I had read up on, he seemed to be handling it alright. More than alright, I thought.

I wanted to be out of here as quickly as possible, so I went about my work. I had an inkling of an idea of how I’d decorate the office, but it was a bit dramatic and I needed to remember that this was corporate designing. It wasn’t home designing. His office would be sleek and intimidating, just like the man himself. Something simple, yet powerful.

It was hard to work when I knew Tristan was watching me. It was unnerving. What was even more unnerving was that a small part of me couldn’t help but feel aroused by it. His gaze felt like a caress and the office was so damn quiet that every rustle of his shirt or every creak of his leather chair shot a zing of awareness through my body. After about five minutes of logging dimensions in my notebook, I straightened and looked at him. “Is there something you need, Mr. Blackwell?”

He studied me, his green eyes calculating, speculative. He wasn’t even hiding the fact that he’d been looking at me. “You’re different at work.”

“Oh? How so?”

“You have this wall around you. You’re colder, shut off from everyone.”

My lips parted in disbelief and then I glared at him. “You know nothing about me. So don’t you dare try and make generalizations about who I am.”

What I didn’t want to acknowledge was that a part of me knew he was right. It scared me how easily he could peg it.

Tristan rose from his chair. I almost gulped, but I told myself to stand my ground. I kept telling myself that even as he rounded his desk and came to a stop a few feet away. I could smell him now, that spicy scent that had wound its way into my brain Saturday night and made me stupid with desire.

Staring down at me, he rumbled, “You don’t like me very much, do you?”

I stared up at him and said honestly, “You’ve given me no reason to like you.”

He smiled. It wasn’t the business smile. It was something else entirely. It was the smile he gave me when we got to his penthouse, when we emerged from the elevator, aroused and crazy with lust. It was warm and sensual. And suddenly, I was caught.