Chapter 15

He pats the sofa next to him suggestively, a cheeky Carrero glint in his eye but I continue with my notes
refusing to make eye contact.

“I think not, Mr. Carrero.” Sighing inwardly at the man I have to deal with every day; he’s never dull
anyway.

“Your loss.” He closes his eyes again. We pause as we hear voices in the room next to us, faint and
distant, that quickly evaporate as the intruders leave again. Both of us silent and still.

“You’ve a meeting in about fifteen minutes, I’m sure half those suits are going to be in it.” I point out,
sounding unamused and bored.

“I’ll just imply I was busy elsewhere.” He shrugs, refusing to open those eyes and managing to look
crazily attractive in this pose. I sigh.

“Busy doing what?”

“Busy in a cupboard with my PA, trying out the softness of the couch.” He smirks, opening one eye and
then the other slowly, to grin at me.

“I’m not having you imply we were up to no good somewhere in this building. Do you know how quickly
that would get around the temp pool?” I respond calmly; this is a repetitive conversation which only
makes me sigh again. Only I would be lumbered with a boss as trying as this, who loves nothing more
than to stress me out. The sexual innuendos never run out with him or the jokes about implicating us.

“We are up to no good, may as well get on the couch and make it worth your while. I’m sure I could
help un-wrinkle that skirt.” I roll my eyes; he’s in his playful mood. I probably won’t get much work done
this afternoon at all when he is like this. He’s trying at the best of times, but worse in playful mode. I
check my watch in irritation, we should get out of here.



“In your dreams,” I respond drily, trying my hardest to ignore him.

“Always.” He throws me a quick eyebrow lift, a cheeky smile. I remain impassive. He’s tiresome and we
have a meeting we should already be arriving at. Needless to say, he no longer intimidates me, and his
overly familiar behavior is a sign that we have grown somewhat closer in the past weeks. He stopped
behaving quite so properly a while ago and I gave up objecting because he is simply too exhausting.

He’s watching me as I smooth a stray hair back into my French knot, aware that his eyes are on me. I
raise mine in question. Throwing him my haughty look. My silent, “What?”

“I miss it sometimes you know?” He’s watching me now, a strange look on his face and a faraway glaze
to his eyes.

“Miss what?” I mumble trying to sort my jacket out. He really did a number on making me look rumpled
this time.

“Being able to intimidate you.” He’s grinning again and eerily reading my thoughts of a moment ago.
Something he does a lot.

“Shame,” I respond flatly. I add a note to my planner for a reservation next week and pull up a new
email I received. It’s finance asking for the spreadsheets we finished this morning. Rosalie is obviously
having no fun with them today.

“I think it’s safe to leave the closet with you now, Mr. Carrero.” I close my iPad inside it’s protective
cover and don’t look at him.

“We’re back to Mr. Carrero, are we? Have I made you pout, Miss. Anderson?” He throws me his most
innocent schoolboy look.

I’m fully aware of my using his title when he pisses me off, he thinks I’m mad at him.



Maybe I am. He did haul me into a cupboard after all.

“I think you need the boundaries redefined, seeing as you just manhandled me into a closet.” I pout at
him.

“Point taken. I’m so deeply sorry for my terrible behavior.” He’s still smiling at me and I have the urge to
smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. This annoys me immensely. I hate that he always manages
to make me cave, even when he’s pissed me off. He’s incorrigible and exhausting. I don’t know why I
endure this every day. I push it down; I would rather stay pissed or appear to be, as it usually gets him
to behave a little more demurely.

“Anytime soon?” I gesture at the door impatiently with a nod, crossing my arms.

“You go, I may stay here for a bit and watch you walk out.” He turns, getting comfy again to watch me
move. A look of wickedness gracing his face and I exhale heavily.

“Enjoy the view,” I retort. “I’ll leave my resignation on the desk as I pass.” I smile sweetly, upper hand
as always. He couldn’t run things quite so well without me. “Reason being sexual harassment … …
Again!” I raise my voice to highlight my uppity tone.

“You couldn’t leave me, Emma … You adore working for me too much. You would miss my sexual
harassment.” The laugh in his voice indicates he is still smiling my way.

Ass.

I raise an eyebrow back at him and turn away as though I’m serious and fight the urge to smirk. He has
a way of getting under my skin even when being juvenile.

I open the door and slide out, looking around cautiously. I notice that his office door is ajar, and I head
out to peek around seeing everything is clear. A small walk to my old desk and I can check most of the



floor is vacant, with only the regular secretaries milling around and paying no heed to me. I pull out my
cell and text him that all is quiet rather than venture back in.

I can’t believe he made me hide in the closet from his father. Sometimes he acts like a two-year-old not
New York’s most eligible bachelor!

He appears a moment later, looking cool and collected and smiles as he tugs a strand of my hair back
down from my French knot. I could slap him, he knows how much his fussing my hair annoys me, yet
it’s something he does several times a day for a reaction. I smooth it back in place and curse under my
breath at his back, resisting the urge to throw him a finger. I pick up the files for the meeting and check
my watch again, we should make it if he moves his ass.

* * *

The meeting is eventful to say the least. His father makes a grand entrance halfway through and
everyone clears the room quickly. The two Carrero men go at it like raging bulls as I stand outside,
observing the many eyes watching them through the glass. I stand with my back to them, iPad in hand
as I reply to emails and I can hear them arguing in Italian so that no one else can understand what
they’re saying.

His father is pissed, but Jake is antagonizing him. I can tell by his tone of voice and a quick glance
confirms it with his aggressive posture. He never knows when to stop. The merger could still be called
off, he should be smoothing things over, not letting his feelings get the better of him.

Finally, Senior storms out, yelling something in hostile Italian and Jake snorts in answer. Senior glares
back at him before stomping off with a flurry of nervous assistants running after him, without a
backward glance, the air crackling with tension.



“Emma!” Jake’s voice makes me jump. He sounds pissed and I snap around as he wanders out,
loosening his tie; his eyes normally so still are stormy and dark and despite his controlled, cool tone, I
can sense he’s aggravated.

“The merger is going ahead.” He almost growls it at me, looking a tad ferocious. I swallow my nerves
back down.

“He isn’t stopping it?” I’m surprised by this.

“He can’t.” He frowns and takes my arm, pulling me back into the board room and slides the door
closed. Holding me close to his face. Another example of his hands-on approach.

“It’s gone public, just like I planned. If Hunter or my father back out now, it will damage both of their
reputations. They both stand to make a lot of money and a lot of jobs ride on this merger. Hunter can’t
refuse, his business will go under if he does.”

I realize that the last few weeks maneuvering this deal in certain ways, and letting certain facts leak,
has been deliberate. Brain behind the brawn, and one of the reasons his father always pushed him to
get involved in the family business. Funny that it’s backfired on him.

“If he stands to gain from this, then why is he so angry?” I query. I know Giovanni Carrero values
money above all things.

“He despises Carl Hunter, you know this.” He shrugs with one shoulder. Casting a look over my head
and frowning at the meandering staff.

“Why did you choose to merger this deal if you knew it would be this way?” I’ve been dying to ask him
that question for weeks but never felt it was my place to interrogate his decisions. Jake’s expression
closes, and he looks thoughtful.



“Let’s go for food … I don’t want to talk here.” He glances up and out one of the long windows again, as
though insinuating he doesn’t trust nearby ears.

“You just had lunch an hour ago, Jake,” I point out, but he shrugs in response and I know it doesn’t
matter. He has the appetite of a horse.

The boy could eat all day and still find space for seconds.


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