He recognized most of them, and noted that Zair was in the top left, his usual too-handsome, too-serious self, his unsmiling face on this particular wall another mystery that would likely never be solved. Her desk was scrupulously neat, made entirely of heavy sheets of metal and glass, and he suspected she knew exactly how formidable and untouchable she looked when she rested against the front of it, leaning back to regard him coolly.
Trouble was, he didn’t respond to messages like that the way he should. The way he was no doubt intended to respond. He wanted to...mess her up a little. Make all of that chilly control bleed into something else, something at least as hot and as wild and as deeply foolish as the thing that hummed in him, demanding he go over there and lose his hands in that slick twist of her hair, take her wicked, argumentative mouth with his, pull those impossibly long legs around his waist and sink into her with those sexy red-soled shoes still on her feet.
He wanted to know why she was targeting him, what she was after.
What she thought she knew about Sarah.
So he kept walking, over the cold floor that made his boots sound like drums, past the sitting area that was set up off to the right and was no doubt where she meant for him to go, to a low sofa that would put him at her knees.
He didn’t think so.
He moved closer and closer, watching the way she fought to keep from reacting, the way her fascinating face tightened and then smoothed out almost in the same instant, as if she’d had to order herself to stay so calm. He certainly hoped she did.
And then he was looming over her. Wholly and unapologetically and inappropriately in her space. As if, should he crook his head just slightly, he might finally taste that smart mouth of hers. It would be that easy.
She tilted her chin up to keep holding his gaze, but otherwise, showed him nothing but that cool wariness she wore like a shield. He wondered what it cost her.
He didn’t know why he wanted to know, as if it was a desperate thing inside him, clawing its way out.
“Perhaps,” she said, and though her voice was mild he could hear a darkness beneath it. A hint of something raw that shouldn’t have called to him, sung in him. “I should have been slightly more clear about what I meant by model client.”
“Tell me why you came after me,” he said. “What you want.”
There was nothing but a scant breath of space between their bodies, and he’d have bet his entire fortune that she wanted to stand up straight to regain a little bit of height, and her edge. But didn’t, because he’d know exactly why she was doing it. He imagined that was also the reason she didn’t tell him to back off. It would be too revealing.
He smiled. He’d always been good at games like this. “Tell me, and I’ll behave.”
“Is this an example of you behaving, Mr. Grant?” Her voice was light. Airy. Her gaze was not. “Because it feels a bit more like a crude attempt at intimidation.”
“Not at all. I’m never crude.”
The problem was, this close, he found it hard to concentrate on things like strategy. He could smell the faintest hint of lavender on her skin, and wanted to follow it. Taste it. Strip away her clothes and feast on the flesh beneath until they were both in pieces. On her desk, on the floor, wherever.
He dropped his gaze to her mouth, which was fuller and more tempting this close. Like a beacon it hurt him to ignore. “This is the first step toward a bright and shiny new me. Just tell me what you want with me.”
“Rehabilitation isn’t easy for anyone,” she said, her voice a little bit too even. He felt it like a victory, adrenaline and need coursing through him, drumming louder than his boots had against the hard floor. “It depends on the client, and clients tend to have difficulty with the most crucial part of it.” She waited until he dragged his gaze back up to hers, and held it for a beat or two. “For starters, you have to do what I say.”
“What happens to clients who don’t?”
“They all do, eventually.”
“No one is entirely successful, Ms. Brook,” he pointed out, his voice lower than it should have been. A rasp against that pulse of need between them, that intense current. “It’s statistically impossible.”
“The only failures I’ve ever had all share one thing in common,” she said, and the heat between them pulled taut. Grew hotter. Wilder. Pounded in him. He saw it move in her gaze, across her face. “Guess what that is?”
“They didn’t do what you told them to do. To continue the theme.”