For 100 Nights (100 2)

At least, they damn sure better not.

Since I have no choice but to own the situation, I ride the elevator to the thirty-fourth floor with the ribbon handles of the shopping bag held casually in my grasp. Lily Fontana, Nick’s personal assistant, is just finishing a phone call as I emerge from the lift. We’ve never been introduced, but I know of her through Nick, and, by accident once, I saw her pretty, heart-shaped face and long ebony hair in a photo on his phone’s contact directory.

She catches my gaze and continues talking to the person on the other end of the line. Her voice is professional, but cool, in contrast with the pleasant smile she gives me as I walk farther into the private reception area.

“Unfortunately, as I informed your press secretary earlier this week, Senator McCormack, Mr. Baine’s calendar is quite full. He’s asked me to convey his regrets that he will be unable to attend. Of course. Yes, I’ll be sure to let Mr. Baine know.”

Lily politely ends the call and turns the full impact of her dazzling smile on me.

“You must be Avery,” she says, coming around her desk to offer me her hand in greeting.

I take it, surprised by her directness and the firmness of her grip for such a petite woman. Diminutive in size only, Nick’s longtime assistant is clearly a force to be reckoned with—which makes sense. I know from experience that shrinking violets would not last long in Dominic Baine’s world.

“Nice to meet you, Lily.”

“Nice to meet you too. Nick should be out shortly,” she tells me. “He’s finishing up in the conference room down the hall. He said he’d like you to wait for him in his office.”

“Okay.”

“Been out doing a little shopping?” She glances at the bag in my hand as she leads me toward Nick’s corner office at the end of the corridor. “I adore L’opale. But then, what woman wouldn’t, right?”

I nod noncommittally, and, before I can reply, I hear Nick’s voice coming from somewhere ahead of us. He steps out of a meeting room accompanied by three other men in suits and a middle-aged woman dressed in a blue nun’s habit and white long-sleeved blouse. I recognize one of the men as Andrew Beckham, Nick’s lawyer. The handsome black attorney helped orchestrate the purchase of Vendange. The other men are unfamiliar to me, but the way they defer to Nick leaves no question as to who’s in charge.

They all look our way, and I’m not sure what makes my face turn redder with self-consciousness—Nick’s smoldering glance, or the sister’s curious stare from behind her round, wire-rimmed glasses.

Shit. Of all the damn luck.

Why couldn’t I be strolling in with a bag of library books or baked goods in my hand? Or clothes to donate for the needy?

Lily keeps walking, and I have no choice but to follow.

Smiling and murmuring a polite, “Pardon us, please,” she leads me past the group while I do my best to pretend I’m not heading into Nick’s office with the full intent to sin as soon as I can get my hands on him.

His deep voice does little to help my focus. “Again, Sister Margaret, Commissioner Rhodes, gentlemen—I do apologize for cutting today’s meeting short. Something urgent arose a few minutes ago and I must take care of it personally.”

I barely stifle the grin that tugs at my lips over his very deliberate choice of words. Although I don’t dare look behind me, I’m certain I feel the heat of Nick’s gaze on my ass as I walk with Lily the rest of the way down the corridor.

She lets me into the expansive office and indicates the seating area in front of the Pollock painting. “Can I get you anything to drink while you wait, Avery?”

I return her smile and shake my head. “No, thank you.”

Giving me a slight nod of acknowledgment, she leaves the room, closing the door quietly behind her. The far wall of Nick’s office is one immense window affording the kind of spectacular views I’ve come to expect of the places he spends any significant amounts of time. Yet as large and impressive as the space is, it’s almost clinical in its lack of personal effects or expressions of individual style.

When he brought me here briefly a few nights ago, I hadn’t really paused to absorb the details. Or, rather, their lack. Now, I notice little else. There are no photographs or trinkets on his desk. No mementoes or objets d’art on any of the consoles or cabinets. Except for the multimillion-dollar canvas that consumes nearly all of one wall in the room, there is nothing that provides so much as a glimpse into Dominic Xavier Baine the international business magnate—or the man.

And while his office is comfortably appointed and impeccably situated in one of the finest areas of the city, I feel an unshakable sense of sadness as I stand in the middle of so much emptiness. I feel alone and

lost. Solitary.

Imprisoned, despite the openness of the city all around me.

Does he feel it too?

Will he ever allow me close enough to him to find out?

This isn’t the first time I’ve wondered about his seemingly impenetrable remoteness and isolation. Not the first time I’ve questioned if allowing myself to fall for a man with the kind of demons and dark secrets I suspect Nick is harboring can be anything but foolish—even dangerous—when I have so many of my own.

If my heart would have it any other way, I’d have never let Nick in.