Damaged Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

I take a deep breath, then brave myself and push past him, trying not to shiver as my shoulder brushes his arm. I hate the faint hiss of the knit weave of my jacket against the fine cotton of his sleeve.

I only stall as he calls after me, “Not going to stay long enough to satisfy your curiosity?”

Why that antagonistic—

I whip around to face him, pivoting on one heel, ignoring everyone at their desks—even though I can feel them staring in horror.

Nope.

I’m only looking at him, holding on to my smile even if I have to pin it up with my teeth, though I can’t stop myself from glaring.

“For the record, I’m not remotely curious about you, Mr. Osprey.”

“No?” he asks disinterestedly. “Not even about why I chose to buy this publication?”

“I’m more curious about why you want me to know so much,” I throw back.

“I’m offering you valuable business information.”

“Orrr you just like to gloat about your evil plans,” I mutter. “You seem like the type.”

“Do I?” His moody amusement returns, and it deepens as he crooks one long, annoyingly suggestive finger at me. “Come closer, Little Red Riding Hood, so the Big Bad Wolf can tell you about how he’ll eat your magazine right up.”

Yeah, I hate where this is going.

But damn him, I am curious.

Curiosity only kills the cat, right?

I think mice are immune.

Edging closer, I’m suddenly far too aware of the eyeballs on us. Especially when, as I stop a safe foot or two away, he just curls that finger at me again.

This is so ridiculous.

Another step closer...and another...until he slams one hand against the doorframe opposite his body, caging me in.

He leans toward me, much too close. His smell makes my head spin as his lips draw lethally near, red and hungry and ruling my vision.

I’m paralyzed as he bends to whisper in my ear.

“You’ve got me figured out. I don’t like it,” he growls. Every syllable makes smoldering air shiver against my skin, fine hairs prickling all over, too hot. His breath smells like chocolate, rich and dark. “Because I do have an ulterior motive, Miss Landry. You want to know what it is, don’t you?”

Everything in me screams run.

Because there’s something dangerous happening right now and I’m not sure it has anything to do with business.

Something dangerous in my heart skipping so hard it’s a violent thing bruising itself on the inside of my rib cage.

Something dangerous in my stuck breath.

Something scary in the way every bit of me feels too warm, and my fingers clench with the ache to touch.

And something exciting in the sudden urge to rise to the challenge, rather than back down for this spoiled prince.

So I turn toward him, my cheek brushing his. That whisper of a beard looks like it should be rough, abrasive, but it’s surprisingly feathery against my skin.

“Then why,” I whisper back, “don’t you stop playing games and just spit it out?”

The snort ripping through him sounds like a bottled chuckle.

“Because this way is interesting, Miss Landry, and after years of wading through filth, I find everything boring.” Raw, intimate, that velvety voice rumbles in my ear. His head turns a little more, his nose brushing the upper curve of my ear. I shudder. “I know what you’re thinking. That I’m an unscrupulous rake. And now that I have your publication, I’ll use it for every last bit of dirty information I can get on the artists you make contact with. It’s the perfect solution, really. How better to get them with their guard down?”

My throat tightens.

I don’t know if I want to punch him or—

My tongue darts over my lips. It only makes the sensation worse.

I watch him from the corner of my eye.

“This is the part where you surprise me. Redeem yourself. Tell me you’re something better than a bastard who loves wallowing in the gutters and who doesn’t care that he’s about to ruin a Chicago institution...”

“Oh, no. I’m every inch the bastard you think I am.” The way he says inch rolls in sultry suggestion, and my stomach draws in tight. “Luckily, I do have other motives. Perhaps you’ll figure out what they are while working under me, my darling chief editor.”

Oh, God.

My legs are trembling, my thighs so hot they stick together. I don’t think I could run now if I wanted, and I don’t even know if I want to. There’s a horrid magnetism here, and I wonder if this is what it’s like to be corrupted by a fallen angel.

But even if my body betrays me, I still find the words to say what I need to.

I raise my head proudly, putting a breath more space between us. “Listen. If you think I’ll do your dirty work, you can accept my resignation r-right...r-r-r-right...r-ri-ri—”

Shit.

I was doing so well, too, making my defiant stand—and then it wasn’t my body, but my mouth that betrayed me.