Page 47 of Filthy Promises

“I had a folder on your desk,” I say, watching her carefully.

“Yes, sir. I put it in your inbox.”

“Did you look inside?”

Her eyes meet mine directly. “No, sir.”

“Why not?” I rise from my chair, circling the desk to stand in front of her. “It was right there. Weren’t you curious?”

She swallows hard. “It was marked confidential. It wasn’t addressed to me.”

I move closer, invading her personal space. “The drawer was locked, too. That didn’t stop you before.”

A flush spreads across her cheeks. “I’ve learned my lesson, Mr. Akopov.”

“Have you?” I reach up, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “What lesson is that?”

Her breath catches, but she doesn’t back away. “That some things aren’t meant for me to see.”

I let my fingers trail down her cheek to her jaw. “And if I wanted you to see them?”

“Then you would show me.” Her voice is stronger now, more confident.

Smart girl.

“What if I told you I left that folder there deliberately?” I say, my thumb brushing across her lower lip. “That I was testing you?”

Her eyes widen. “Did I pass?”

I smile, slow and predatory. “For now.”

I drop my hand and step back, returning to the safety of my desk. Distance is necessary right now. The way she responds to my touch is too tempting, and I need a clear head for what comes next.

I glance at my watch. Nearly three. The Pediatric Cancer Foundation gala starts at seven, which means I need to be dressed and ready in the next hour if I want to make my pre-event meeting with the board chairman.

“What time is the car scheduled?” I ask, already loosening my tie.

Rowan consults her tablet. “Five-thirty, sir.”

“Good.”

I shrug off my suit jacket, hanging it on the back of my chair. The look of confusion on her face is delicious—uncertainty mixed with that spark of desire she tries so hard to hide.

“Is there something else you needed, Mr. Akopov?” Her voice has that tremor again. Like she’s afraid of what I might ask. Or afraid of what she might agree to.

“As a matter of fact, there is.” I start unbuttoning my dress shirt, one button at a time, maintaining eye contact. “The gala tonight is black tie. My tuxedo should have been delivered earlier.”

Her eyes dart to the garment bag hanging on the coat rack by the door, then back to me, widening as I continue unbuttoning my shirt.

“Part of your duties as my personal assistant,” I explain, enjoying the pink flush spreading across her cheeks, “involves making sure I’m properly prepared for important events. That includes helping me dress when necessary.”

I slip my shirt off my shoulders, revealing the white undershirt beneath. The temperature in the room seems to spike a hundred degrees.

“I—I don’t think that’s in my job description,” she stammers, but her eyes betray her, lingering on my chest, my arms.

“Your job description is whatever I say it is, Ms. St. Clair.” I step closer, invading her space again. “Unless you’re planning to resign?”

She wets her lips. “No, sir.”

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