Page 18 of Sinful Lies

The meeting.

Oh, shit.

I snapped upright, my finger jamming the button for the 18th floor as if that would somehow make the elevator move faster. It paused at the 23rd,of course, dragging out my misery before finally starting its descent.

I had a staff meeting that technically started—well—ten minutes ago.

It was Wednesday, but because Lazzio was jetting off to Australia tomorrow to charm their Minister of Culture, he insisted we push the exhibition briefing up a week.

Requirements, complaints, demands—it was all going to be in there.

And I was already ten minutes late.

Angelo Lazzio—the reigning king of perfection, punctuality, and micromanaging the air we breathe—was going to murder me. Not figuratively. No, the man had a way of looking at you that could melt steel and make you rethink all your life choices.

I’d seen it happen to others; now it was my turn on the chopping block.

By the time the elevator dinged on the 18th floor my heart was racing, though not entirely from the panic.

Lazzio was intimidating, sure.

His sharp suits, his piercing eyes, the way he could strip you bare with a single look—he was the kind of man who radiated power. But there was something else about him, something that made my pulse stutter for anentirelydifferent reason.

I smoothed my skirt and walked briskly down the hall, heels clicking against the polished floor as I rehearsed my excuse.

When I pushed open the glass door to the conference room, everyone’s heads turned. My colleagues were seated around the oval table, their expressions a mix of curiosity and amusement.

And then there was Lazzio, standing at the head of the table with his arms crossed, his dark eyes locking on mine the moment I stepped inside.

“Miss Whitenhouse,” Lazzio said, his voice like ice. “How nice of you to join us.”

I swallowed hard, quickly sliding into the only empty chair—directly across from him.

“Sorry, traffic,” I said lightly, my lips curling into a half-smile.

Lazzio didn’t respond immediately.

Instead, he leaned forward, his hands resting on the sleek glass table as he studied me. His suit jacket stretched just enough to reveal the crisp white dress shirt beneath, tailored so perfectly it looked like it belonged in an art exhibit itself.

The corner of his mouth quirked, just enough to make me wonder if he was amused or irritated—or worse,both.

“Traffic? You don’t even drive, Miss Whitenhouse.”

“Pedestrian traffic,” I said smoothly, crossing one leg over the other under the table. “You know how the streets get this time of day.”

“Well,” he said finally, straightening to his full height, “now that you’re here, perhaps we can continue.”

I nodded, ignoring the heat creeping up my neck as he gestured for the team to proceed.

If I thought the hard part was over, I was dead wrong.

The meeting had barely started, and already, I could feel his eyes on me. It wasn’t just his gaze; it was the kind of stare that could pin you in place, take the air from your lungs if you let it.

But then again, this was Lazzio.

His eyesalwayshad a way of lingering on me whenever we were in the same room.

They weren’t filled with anything interesting, though. No desire, no warmth—just boredom. That cold, detached look,like I was some piece of furniture that happened to catch his attention for a second.

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