Beautiful Secret (Beautiful Bastard 4)

I saw the top of Niall Stella’s head as he stepped in just behind Anthony, and it was as if the air had been sucked from the room. People and chatter blurred around the edges and then it was just him, expression neutral as he seemed to instinctively take in who was there and who was missing, his shoulders wrapped in a dark suit, one hand tucked casually into the pocket of his dress pants.

The urgent, fiery feeling in my chest grew.

There was something about Niall Stella that made you want to watch him. Not because he was boisterous or loud, but because he wasn’t. There was a quiet confidence about him, a way he carried himself that demanded attention and respect, and a feeling that while he wasn’t talking, he was watching everything, noticing everyone.

Everyone except me.

Having come from a family of therapists that discussed everything, I’d never been the silent type. My brother, and even Lola probably, would start calling me a chatterbox when I really got going. So the fact that I of all people couldn’t manage a single articulate thing when Niall Stella was within touching proximity made absolutely zero sense. What I felt for him was a distracting kind of infatuation.

He didn’t even have to attend Thursday meetings; he just did, because he wanted to make sure there was “cross-departmental consensus” and so his planning division “could at least have a working engineering vocabulary” since it was Niall Stella’s responsibility to coordinate engineering with public policy and his own planning division.

Not that I’d memorized everything he’d ever said at this meeting.

Today he wore a light blue shirt beneath a dark charcoal suit. His tie was a mesmerizing swirl of yellow and blue, and my eyes moved from the double Windsor knot at his neck to the smooth skin just above, the heavy curve of his Adam’s apple, the sharp jaw. His normally impassive mouth was turned down in consternation, and when I made it up to his eyes . . . I registered with horror that he was watching me eye-fuck him like it was my job.

Oh, God.

I dropped my gaze to my laptop, the screen blurring out with the intensity of my stare. The flurry of telephones and printers from the outer office flowed in through the open door, seeming to reach a crescendo of chaos, and then someone closed the door, signaling the start of the meeting. And as if the room had been vacuum sealed, all noise came to an abrupt stop.

“Mr. Stella,” Karen said in greeting.

I clicked on my mail folder, ears ringing as I strained to hear his reply. One breath in, one breath out. Another. I typed in my password. I willed my heart to slow down.

“Karen,” he said finally in his perfect, quiet, deep voice, and a smile spread unconsciously across my face. Not just a smile, a grin, like I’d just been offered a giant slice of cake.

Dear God, I am in so deep.

Biting the inside of my cheek, I worked to straighten my expression. Judging from the way Pippa’s elbow connected with my ribs, I was pretty sure I failed.

She leaned toward me. “Easy, girl,” she whispered. “It was only two syllables.”

The door opened and Sasha, another intern, slipped in with a wince. “Sorry I’m late,” she whispered. A glance at the clock on my laptop told me she was actually perfectly punctual, but Anthony of course wouldn’t let it slide.

“All right, Sasha,” he said, watching her squeeze awkwardly between the long row of chairs and the wall as she made her way to the empty seat in the far corner. The room pulsed with silence. “Lovely jumper. Is it new? Blue is a great color on you.” Sasha took her seat, her cheeks brilliant red. “Good morning, by the way,” Anthony said with a wide smile.

I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath. He was such an asshole.

Finally, the meeting started in earnest. Anthony went down his list of questions for each of us, papers were passed around, and as I swiveled in my seat to hand the stack to the person on my right, I glanced up. And nearly swallowed my tongue.

Niall Stella was only two seats away from me.

From beneath my lashes I looked at him, the angle of his jaw—always clean-shaven, never even a hint of scruff—his thickly lashed eyes and perfect, dark brows, his impeccable shirt and tie. His hair looked so smooth in the dim light of the conference room. I actually frowned when I noted it would probably be soft, too—because of course it would be—and I wondered for the hundredth time what it would be like to run my hands through it, tug him down, and—

“Ruby? Did we hear back from Adams and Avery yet?” Anthony asked.

I straightened in my chair and blinked down to my laptop, having stayed up late with this file just last night.

“Not yet,” I said, with barely a waver in my voice. “They have our plans, drafted and ready for signature. But I’ll double back with them if I haven’t got a call by the end of the day.”