Passion on Park Avenue (Central Park Pact #1)(9)

Oliver disagreed. It’s not as though he laminated and framed the finished puzzles for some sort of weird display. He just enjoyed solving things. Jigsaws. Sudoku. Crosswords . . . People.

“Where do you live now?” Oliver asked, realizing the silence had stretched too long.

“I’m sure it’s in my file,” she said with a wooden smile.

Oliver said nothing, and they had a silent staring—glaring?—contest that was as exhilarating as it was childish.

He won, only because her eyes rolled briefly in irritation. “Lower East Side.”

Oliver nodded. He hadn’t spent much time on the Lower East Side since his college days, but the neighborhood suited her. Vibrant, youthful, and just the slightest bit gritty.

It was also a long way from the Upper East Side, in vibe, if not distance.

Oliver lifted his eyebrows to be deliberately provoking and said as much. “Long trek.”

“Yes, the two-mile cab ride was absolutely exhausting.”

The folder paused just briefly in its tapping against his palm. Odd. Something about her expression and that dry sarcasm felt . . . familiar. He scanned his memory but came up blank. He didn’t have a lot of gingers in his acquaintance. He’d have remembered her.

“Two miles is a lot in Manhattan,” he said.

“Too true,” she said with another of those “smiles” that wasn’t even remotely friendly. “Two miles in this city can mean the difference between real people and pretension.”

Oliver’s jaw clenched. He did not lose his temper often, but this woman was seriously pushing his buttons.

“All right, I give up, Ms. Powell. What’s your deal?”

“My deal?”

“You’ve been eyeing my jugular since I walked in the door.”

He waited for her to deny it. Instead, she inspected her manicure. A deep navy, he noted, and not the demure pale pink or classic red he was used to seeing. And yet everything else, the expensive-looking dress, the brand-name handbag, the sleek hairstyle, was expected, just like every other woman he knew.

But there was something else there—something more interesting that he couldn’t put his finger on. Almost like she was a blend of self-confidence and vulnerability all wound into one feisty, compelling package.

She was a contradiction.

Maybe Oliver didn’t need to start that jigsaw puzzle tonight, after all. He had a hell of a puzzle right in front of him.

“You do realize that I’m the gatekeeper to the next round,” he prodded again.

She craned her neck, pretending to look at his hands. “Oh, is there a ring I was supposed to kiss? I’m new to this whole process. Should I bow?”

There it was again. The flash of familiarity. Who was this woman?

“Have we met?” he asked, tossing the folder on the desk as he studied her.

She looked away, and Oliver’s eyes narrowed. “We have. How do I know you?”

Naomi looked back, her eyes guarded. “You don’t.”

“You sure?”

Instead of replying, she rewarded him with her first genuine smile. And damn, what a smile it was. Seductive and lethal all at the same time.

He was still reeling from its impact when she startled him by standing.

“We’re not done,” he said, then hid a wince at how pompous he sounded. How much like his father he sounded.

“Oh, I think we are,” she murmured. “I think we both know exactly what you’re going to write on my application the second I leave.”

“Yeah, we do,” he snapped, standing up, too. “Left interview early.”

She glared up at him, and Oliver was a little surprised to realize that they were both breathing hard.

Naomi Powell wasn’t particularly short, but at six feet, he had the physical advantage. For the first time since he’d hit his growth spurt in high school, he relished his height. This perplexing woman got under his skin like nobody had in a long time, and he needed every defense he could get.

Just as he was gearing up for her retort—anticipating it—she turned away.

Oliver called after her. “You understand that I’m not going to recommend you for the next round of interviews, right?”

“No problem, Mr. Cunningham. And look on the bright side. With me gone, there’ll be more room for your emperor complex up in here. I’ll send your secretary in. You’re looking a bit overdue for your daily hand-feeding of grapes.”

Naomi sailed out the office door without so much as a backward glance.

Oliver stood staring at the doorway, feeling somewhere between dumbfounded and off balance. And most annoyingly of all . . .

Intrigued.

Who the hell was that woman?





FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 28

Naomi picked up her stapler, a fancy tortoiseshell one from Kate Spade, intending to put it in a moving box alongside the matching tape dispenser. Instead, she clicked it rapidly in agitation, looking around at the disaster zone that was her office.

So this was what one got for procrastinating on moving four years’ worth of stuff until the last afternoon before the movers came. Chaos.

Not that Naomi minded the mess. She did some of her best work in the midst of mayhem. But she was rapidly regretting the fact that she hadn’t taken Deena’s advice and let the movers take care of the packing. Naomi’d had grand visions of using the office’s relocation as an opportunity to sort through old inventory, maybe achieve that elusive dream of organization that was always just out of reach.