Billionaire Boss's Unexpected Child

Her dark eyes meet mine, almost like a challenge, and it’s like lightning striking. She raises one perfectly arched eyebrow, and the corner of her mouth quirks up as if there’s some joke here that only she is in on.

Once I tear my eyes away from her gaze, I’m able to take in the rest of her. She’s a petite little thing, probably coming up to about my chin. Her proportions are perfect: a tiny waist, curvy hips and the kind of breasts I just know would fill my hands nicely.

I shove the thought away. She’s clearly too damn young. Early twenties, I guess. She’s dressed in a black skirt and blazer that hugs her curves perfectly, with a light pink blouse peeking between her lapels. She has the kind of legs I envision resting on my shoulders as I make her scream my name: shapely and firm. She could leave those black stilettos on, though. My entire body feels warm, and I’m all too aware of the fact that it’s been a while since I’ve had a good, thorough fuck.

I’ll have to fix that.

My mouth has gone dry, and I force my eyes back up to her face. She still wears the same look, as if she’s trying to size me up, but there is a little glint in her eyes now, like maybe I’ve annoyed her.

Cute.

She’s tiny and curvaceous and about halfway between being flustered and wanting to rip me a new one.

Still, cute or not, she’s not supposed to be here, and she’s already caused enough chaos— besides giving me the beginning of what will be an embarrassing hard-on if she doesn’t get the hell out of my gallery soon.

“We open at one o’clock,” I tell her. “And I really, really hope you didn’t damage that painting.”

Chapter Two

Poppy

I feel my face heat in embarrassment and nervousness when he practically yells at me about the damned painting. Again. But that’s never stopped me from running my mouth before, so why should it now?

“Oh, please. The wind blew that painting down. Blame the wind or whoever set it near the entrance.”

The man’s jaw drops, and I keep going. This suit needs to learn a lesson in how not to speak to a woman.

“Seriously, you’re lucky I’m not a customer, mister. If I was, you can bet that I’d be telling everyone I know not to bother coming in here because this gallery’s staff is rude as hell.”

He is still standing there, but now there’s a look in his eyes, a little lift at the corner of his mouth, and I suspect that he’s maybe laughing at me. It’s almost impossible to ignore the way he’s watching me, and I get the distinct impression that maybe he’s trying to figure out what I look like naked. Typical. The arrogance is pretty much seeping off him.

“Point taken, miss.” His voice is deep, rich, like the deep ochres and siennas of a Rembrandt. Suddenly, I go from loathing the guy to feeling a light flutter in my most secret place. “And who might you be, if you're not a customer?”

I hesitate but then recover. I have every damn right to be here. I straighten my spine and look him in the eye. “I’m the new intern.”

The guy doesn’t say anything for a moment. Instead, his gaze stays on my face for several long moments before traveling down my body as if he’s following every curve, every dip. I’m annoyed as hell to be looked at like I’m some kind of piece of meat or something, but… I feel this heat low in my belly. No one’s ever looked at me the way he is, like he’s noticing every detail, studying me like I’m one of the sculptures in the far corner of the gallery. Part of the heat comes from the fact that he’s hotter than hell. Dark, wavy hair, and the most arresting hazel eyes I’ve ever seen. He’s clean shaven, with a chiseled jaw and strong neck. The faint lines at the corners of his eyes suggest that he’s older—at least in his late thirties—and one word comes to mind: experienced.

I bet he’s experienced as hell in all kinds of things.

He looks damn good no matter how old he is. He’s tall, with broad shoulders and a wide chest. He dwarfs me, even in my three-inch heels. That light flutter has turned into a distinct dampness in my panties. I’ve been attracted to guys before but this… this is just crazy. And absolutely unwanted.

“And your name is?” he asks in a low, almost lazy tone.

I’m

pretty sure this guy, asshole though he is, could make me come with nothing more than his voice if he really wanted to. Holy shit.

“Poppy McAdams,” I tell him. He gives me a slow nod, still looking at me.

“Well. Ms. McAdams. Why don’t you wait upstairs in the loft? The gallery owner will be with you shortly to go over your duties.” I nod, and the corner of his mouth rises, just a little. “Try not to break anything when you’re up there.”

I open my mouth to tell him off, but he turns away, giving me a good view of his backside, which is almost as nice as his front.

The good-looking ones are always assholes. Always.

Without another word, I head for the stairs and make my way to the loft. I swear I can feel him looking at me, but that’s stupid. Or is it? After all, he’s just a stereotypical man. He probably can’t help himself. And men wonder why feminism is a growing movement?

Of course, when I turn around, his eyes are on me, and he gives me the smallest of nods before I turn around again and continue on my way. I wonder if he works here. He must, right? He’s going to be my co-worker. Great. At the moment, I have no idea whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing.