Page 20 of Filthy Promises

“Do you know why I asked you here today?”

To compare me to Vanessais on the tip of my tongue, but I bite it back. Cringe humor strikes again, as inappropriately timed as ever.

“To fire me for barging in on a… a private moment?”

Vincent leans back in his chair, those dark eyes studying me with unnerving intensity. It’s like my first day all over again. “Is that what you think?”

“Isn’t it?”

He steeples his fingers. “No, Ms. St. Clair. I’m not firing you.”

Relief floods through me, so powerful I actually feel lightheaded. Maybe there is a God after all. If there is, it’s starting to look like he has ice-blue eyes and silver streaks in his hair.

“You’re… you’re not?”

“In fact, I’m promoting you.”

I blink.

Then blink.

Then blink again.

“I’m sorry… You’re gonna have to say that a few times before it computes.”

“I’ve been reviewing your file.” He taps a folder on his desk. I can see my company headshot peeking out of the top of it. Strange—I’ve never seen it printed in glossy 8½ x 11 before. “You’ve been with us for five years. Marketing associate, correct?”

I nod, still stunned, still speechless, still baffled by what the hell is going on.

“Your design work is impressive. I particularly liked the Harrison campaign.”

My mouth falls open. I may or may not look like a landed fish.

“You—you’ve seen my work?”

“I make it a point to know what’s happening in my company.” He leans forward, elbows planted on his desk, eyes gleaming like a patch of sidewalk frost that’s about to send you tumbling ass over end. “You’re wasted in your current position.”

Is this really happening? Did I hit my head and hallucinate this entire conversation? The sidewalk frost metaphor might’ve been a little too on point.

“I… I don’t understand.”

“It’s simple.” His eyes hold mine captive. “Vanessa—whom I believe you met in passing—has been transferred. I need a new executive assistant. Someone with an eye for design, an understanding of marketing, and the ability to be… discreet.”

The last word hits like one of the Rock ‘em Sock ‘em Robots that Mom got me for Christmas when I was a little kid.

Discreet—whap!

The wink—wham!

My head is about to fly off my spine if he says one more thing out of left field.

“You want me to be your assistant?” I can barely form the words.

“Not just any assistant. My right hand.”

He stands, sauntering around the desk and coming to rest on the edge directly in front of me, arms folded across his chest.

He shaved, I notice. I think I prefer the beard. Easier to imagine how that feels between my thighs.

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