The Casanova (The Miles High Club 3)

Back in my room, he unzips the bag and pulls out a black shirt and smiles. “This.”

I frown as I stare at the shirt. “That?”

“Over the dress.”

I screw up my face. “What?”

He grabs my shoulders and turns me back toward my bed. “Just trust me, I’ve got this.”

I stare at myself in the elevator mirror. The image is unfamiliar. I’m wearing a long, black straight skirt that also moonlights as a dress. A black fitted button-up shirt over the top with a few buttons undone. A patent leather belt strategically placed to cinch in my waist, and black high heels from my cousin Mary’s wedding.

My blonde hair is out and styled and I’m wearing makeup, not a lot, but more than usual. I don’t dress up this much to go out, let alone for work.

And I don’t know why I’m choosing now to do it . . . but I have . . .

I let out a shaky exhale as the nerves dance in my stomach.

I’ve got a meeting with Elliot this morning and am on my way up to his office right now. I glance back up at my reflection and I cringe. Oh, this is stupid, what the hell am I doing? I hit the level sixteen button, I need to get off. I can’t see him looking like this.

He’ll know.

The elevator flies past level sixteen and I close my eyes. Shit.

The doors open on the top floor and I drop my shoulders as I step out and into the reception area, all black with a trendy black timber feature wall. Huge gold letters tell me exactly where I am, as if I could ever forget.

MILES MEDIA

The flooring is black marble and, like everything up here, it just feels expensive.

“Hello Kathryn.” Leonie smiles, she looks me up and down. “You look lovely today, dear.”

“Thanks.” I smile as I wish the earth would swallow me up. “I have something on . . . after work.” I make an excuse for looking the way I do.

“I love it, you should wear this every day.”

I fake a smile. Kill me fucking now.

“Just go through, he’s expecting you.”

I walk down the corridor and close my eyes. God, what was Daniel thinking making me wear this? It’s too over the top. I knock softly on Elliot’s door.

“Come in,” his deep voice calls.

I close my eyes as I steel myself and I push the door open. “Hello.”

Elliot glances up from his computer and then looks back down; he then does a double take and his eyes rise and look me up and down. He sits up as if suddenly interested, and holding a pen between his fingers he says, “Hello Kathryn.”

I grip my folder with white-knuckle force. “Hello.”

“Please.” He gestures to the seat at his desk. “Come in.”

I walk in as his eyes drop to my toes and then back up to my face for the second time today, and he leans back in his chair as if pleased about something.

I raise my eyebrow. “What?”

A trace of a smile crosses his face. “What, what?”

“Why do you look like that?” I ask.

“I was just going to ask you the same question.”

“Oh.” I glance down at myself and feel like I have to justify my choice of outfit. “I just—”

“Look lovely,” he cuts me off.

I stare at him, unsure what to say next. I swallow the large lump that is lodged firmly in my throat. “The report?” I stammer.

“Yes.” His eyes hold mine. “Let’s do that.” He points to the seat with his pen and rotates his chair back to his computer. “I wanted to go through a few points. I’m unsure how to read the data.”

“Okay.” I sink into the chair.

He looks up and narrows his eyes as if processing a new thought. “A new perfume.”

“What?”

“You’re wearing a new perfume today.”

“No, I’m not,” I snap. Oh, hell on a cracker . . . this trying to be sexy is a disaster.

“Yes . . . you are. I know your scent.” His eyes hold mine. “And . . . today it’s different.”

He knows my scent . . . what the fuck?

I frown as I stare at him. “Umm . . . ” I give a subtle shake of my head, completely flustered. “I don’t know, maybe you haven’t been around me when I’ve worn it before.”

“What a shame.”

I drop my head in confusion. Is he flirting with me?

I don’t get it: for seven years I’ve known this man, despised him, and thankfully been immune to his charm. I’ve watched every woman around me in the office fall desperately in lust with Elliot Miles and I could never see the attraction.

For the life of me, I didn’t get what they saw in him.

Today, I do.

I open my folder as a distraction.

Focus.

“So . . . the projected income is on the left-hand side of the graph here.” I point to the pink line with my finger as I try to act professional. “This line here is the actual income of the UK office, and this line here is projected advertising costs, although we don’t have all the data for France . . .” My eyes flick up to see if he’s listening; he’s sitting back in his chair, his thumb is under his chin, and his pointer finger is tracing over his lips as if he’s thinking deeply.