Hell on Heels(26)

She laughed. “Oh, I know dear.” Standing, she placed her hand in mine. “Gladys Hart.”

“Oh, do you own…” I started, but she interrupted me by shaking her head.

“No, no. The company belongs to my nephew.”

I nodded. “The building is so unique.”

“Sure is.” She looked down the hall and then back to me. “He’s been waiting for you.” She motioned for me to follow her.

We walked past two offices on the right hand side. One of the doors had been closed, but sitting behind the desk in the other was one of the men I’d seen with Beau at the gala.

Protection detail, I guessed, and gave a little wave.

He waved back and grinned.

The whole office seemed like they were in on the same punch line.

Gladys knocked twice on the door at the end of the hall before opening it. “Good luck, dear.” She gave me a little push, and I half fell, half walked into the room.

The joke was on me when the man behind the desk chuckled at my ungraceful entrance.

It sounded familiar.

Why did it sound familiar?

He stood at the window, his broad back to me. The black Henley he wore hugged every muscle as I followed them up and up and up. He turned, his profile coming into full view, and my eyes flew from his full lips to his hair, which had been pulled into a bun at the base of his head.

“Nice to see you, Princess.”

My legs felt cemented into the ground and my pulse eradicated. “You’ve got to be f*cking kidding me,” I whispered incredulously.

They said that statistically bad things happened in threes.

There, in the flesh, was my penance, my three.

“That’s hardly how I’d expect you to greet a past lover.”

He prowled towards me, and the fight in me that had lain dormant since last night ignited.

I scoffed. “Fuck you.”

“I wish you would.” The man, whose name I still did not know, stopped a few feet short of where I was standing.

Pursing my lips, I growled a little under my breath. “Where do you get off being such a monumental prick?”

He took my verbal hits like they were that of a toddler and rebounded them back to me. “Where do you get off being such a stuck up bitch?”

“You can’t call me a bitch!” I shrieked.

Crossing his arms over his chest, my eyes dropped and he chuckled again.

Every time he laughed, it was like he was dangling red in front of a bull, and make no mistake, I was the bull.

“Who the f*ck are you?” I snarled at him.

Engaging in another face-off with this man was more than I could take, and it irritated me that, despite everything, I found myself even more attracted to him as the unmasqued man.

“Maverick.” He held out a hand to me, but I didn’t take it.

Narrowing my eyes, I bit out, “Maverick, what?”

“Hart.” He smirked. “Maverick Hart.”

Closing my eyes, I pilfered the air for oxygen. “You’ve got to be f*cking kidding me,” I mumbled.

“‘fraid not.” I felt him get closer, and in response, my body broke out in a fever pitch, eyes springing open to watch as he approached like the very predator he was. “I look forward to working with you.”

“Ha!” I spat, backing up on my heels. “I’m not working with you.”

“You want to have the mayor at your fancy party again next year, you’ll work with me,” he challenged me.

I glared at him. “I have a staff of five; someone else can work with you.”

“You want to keep getting cozy with Beau, you’ll work with me.” He seemed angry, but my temper could go toe-to-toe with his, even on an off day.

“That’s none of your business.” He took another step towards me, but instead of retreating, I took one towards him.

“It was my business when you had your tongue in my mouth at the gala he paid for.”

“Fuck you.” This was getting old. He had no right to judge me. I wasn’t a slut. Women were allowed to date multiple men. That was the exact reason the term dating was coined. It’s the twenty-first century, after all.

“It was my business when you spent an hour pressed up against me before running off to him.”

I poked his chest with my finger. “Are you jealous? Seriously?” I mocked him. “How petty.”

“Tell me, Charleston.” He spoke low and dangerous.

I paused, my hand coming to rest at my hip, arching a distained eyebrow in his direction. If he wanted me to be a bitch, I could surely play the part.

“Is it exhausting to be so remarkably cynical?”

“Cynicism is for the weak and uneducated,” I countered his argument. “I’m a realist, Mr. Hart. Last I checked, that has yet to be deemed a felony.”

He smirked. “Or perhaps, more simply, a pessimist.”

“You’re quite rude,” I accused.

He trailed a finger down the open zipper of my leather jacket, his voice humming with a confidence that made me want to throw something at him. “Perhaps I think you can take it.”

“Or perhaps you’re just an *.”

My pulse was so loud in my head with his hands on me that I could barely think, let alone succumb to intelligent speech.