Forbidden Surrender (Forever 1)

“Right. An emotion-driven approach.” I used his own words to show I understood him.

He smiled. “I call it the Buddy System. In my experience, Vincent’s a Type B. Hobbyist, passionate for recreational activities, doesn’t really know how to run a company but got extremely lucky. A hands-off CEO who’s unburdened by details but good at delegating responsibility to his VPs. The guy loves to jerk off and surf.”

I had my doubts about his assessment, but I kept them to myself. Vincent had started off as an avid surfer and built a cheap waterproof camera that allowed him to film his accomplishments. It seemed the only thing novel about his product was the attachment that fixed the device to his surfboard. People began asking him to build them one and through word-of-mouth it took off. Seven years later, his company SandWorks had expanded into various businesses related to extreme sports—bungee jumping, skydiving, mountain climbing, you name it. But based on all the internet pictures of the guy with his shirt off and surfboard in hand, you’d think he was a full-time beach bum.

A bum with tattoos and chiseled abs.

Richard continued as we crossed the street. “These guys are fairly predictable. All the other wealth management firms vying for his money look exactly the same on paper. They’re going to talk to him about alpha ratios, dividends, hedge funds, and it’s all going to go over his head. We want our approach to stand out. Demonstrating your interest in what he’s passionate about is going to win you half the battle. Watch, I bet he’ll be in a t-shirt, shorts, and sandals when we meet him.”

My sensitivity to incorrect initial assumptions kicked in but I wasn’t going to argue with Richard. Our strategy was set. Fortunately, Richard’s confidence helped quell the gnawing feeling in my stomach that we were still unprepared. It was like the test anxiety I would get all throughout college except now failure meant losing millions of dollars instead of a few GPA points.

When we reached our destination, I faintly recognized the towering structure from our research. “Does Vincent own this building?”

“No. The company just rents out a few offices on the twenty-third floor for small operations in the area. He mainly comes here to surf.”

I made sure to plaster my smile on before we passed through the revolving door entrance. After checking in, we took the elevator up to Vincent’s floor where a receptionist ushered us to his office. “Just knock,” she said before returning to her post.

“You ready?” Richard asked as he held his knuckle to the door.

This was it. I sucked in a deep breath and looked him in the eye. “Let’s do this.”

He knocked and I heard a distinctly male voice telling us to come in. Raising the corners of my lips to give my smile that extra perk, I followed as Richard led us in. My smile faded at the sight of the man seated behind the desk.

He was calmly poised with masculine refinement more befitting a Calvin Klein model than a Fortune 500 CEO. As I gazed at those rich brown eyes, sharply etched nose, and seductively carved mouth set in a bone structure undoubtedly designed by a master artisan I briefly thought we had stepped onto the set of a photoshoot. But there was no mistaking this was Vincent Sorenson, in the flesh. The hours I’d spent analyzing his images in the name of research did not—could not—prepare me for the real thing. In the most recent photo I could find, he was up to his waist in the sea and approaching the shore beaming a heart-stopping smile like some sort of mythical sex god eager to claim his offerings. It wasn’t difficult to imagine virgins voluntarily sacrificing themselves to him.

But that picture was taken months ago and his dirty-blonde hair had been short then. Now it flowed, framing his features like a portrait fit for display in a museum. For an instant all I could think about was how it would feel to run my hands through those silky locks.

My footsteps slowed, matching my breaths as I watched him elegantly rise and circle his large oak desk, closing the space between us with economical finesse. After shaking Richard’s hand, he stood in front of me. With brows furrowed in deep curiosity, his gorgeous eyes bored into my own, shrewdly assessing and evaluating. I felt strangely vulnerable and exposed under the weight of that stare, like I was undressed and naked before him.

I caught a whiff of something that made my mouth water and the area between my thighs ache. What was it? Cologne, after shave, his pheromones? Whatever it was, it smelled good.

Being so close, the raw magnetism he exuded jumbled my senses and made my pulse erratic. I felt compelled and pushed all at once; it was a potent male force that could never be bottled or captured on film, only experienced.

The sound of Richard’s cough and subsequent nudge on my arm broke the spell.

My lips were dry so I licked them before speaking. “Hello Mr. Sorenson. Kristen Daley. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said evenly.

I held out my hand, feeling like the appendage didn’t belong to me. I watched him take it with his own and squeeze firmly. The sensation alone was enough to summon  p**n ographic images I neither approved of nor realized existed within me, ones where I was bent over his desk or splayed against a wall or on my knees. . .

“Vincent,” he said, the velvety rasp of his voice flowing over me. The way he spoke his own name made it seem even more divine. “The pleasure’s mine.”

The heat radiating from his hand and up my arm seemed to reach my brain, and I forgot to squeeze back.

When he released his grip and shifted his gaze away from me, I was both relieved and disappointed to have the dirty mental images fade.

Pull yourself together. You’re here for business.

“Great weather today,” Richard remarked. “Perfect for surfing.” He was already launching into the script.

It was then I noticed Vincent was wearing a t-shirt, shorts, and sandals—just as Richard predicted. The effect of the combination was more striking than I could have predicted and I figured he was the only man who could pull off sexy-casual well. Nevertheless, figuring the beach bum impression had been accurate, my fantasies subsided long enough to allow me to resume my feminine allure, smile included. It seemed to be working because I could feel Vincent’s gaze slide over my profile as we moved to the meeting area of his office.

Vincent gestured and we took two accent chairs near the large glass wall facing the beach. It was a spacious office, bigger than any I had ever seen.

“I’d like to work on my cutback. I hear the Bali Bay is a great spot,” Richard said. He had never surfed in his life.