Twisted Lies (Twisted 4)

“You don’t want to lose the account, but you also don’t want to tarnish your reputation or set a bad precedent by cutting the other loose,” I surmised. I chewed my lip, thinking it over. “I mean, it’s a pride issue. He doesn’t want his competitor to have what he has, so why don’t you offer him something extra? Upgrade him to a VVIP package and make it clear his competitor doesn’t have the same level of access.”

VIP was the standard for his clients, but VVIP was the next level.

“I don’t have a VVIP package.”

“Now you do. At least make him think you do,” I amended. “Throw in some extra security features, take him out for drinks. Tell him to keep the package quiet because it’s available only to a very select few. Kind of like a secret club. It’ll soothe his ego, and he’ll be thrilled because he has something over his competitor. People like that just want to feel like they’re better than someone.”

It was a lesson I’d learned after years of working in the fashion world.

Christian examined me with a faint smile. “Perhaps you have more business acumen than you give yourself credit for.” His low murmur wrapped around my senses like a lush velvet blanket.

“More empathy than business acumen,” I said, embarrassed. “I’m still terrible at negotiations and accounting.”

Learn how to accept compliments, babe. “Thank you” is a perfectly adequate response.

Jules’s voice echoed in my head.

I was trying, but some compliments were easier to accept than others.

“Anyway, try it and see how it goes.” I cleared my throat. “In the meantime, you need to destress. Do you meditate?”

He stared at me.

“It’ll help you sleep better.”

Silence.

Okay, then. I guess that was a no.

“How about yoga?” I tried. “We can do it together. I’ll coach you through it.”

Christiaan looked like he would rather drown in a vat of acid. “I appreciate the offer, but I’ll stick with a hot shower and sleep,” he said dryly.

“Shower and sleep aren’t enough.” Not with how deep the frown lines were carved into his brow. Businessmen were all the same, forever chasing the next big deal with no regard for their health until it was too late.

I snapped my fingers. “Okay, I have an idea. Sit on the couch.”

“I’m not meditating.”

“You already said that.” Not in so many words, but his silence spoke volumes. “It’s not meditation. Just sit. Please?”

Suspicion lurked in his eyes, but he complied.

My heart hammered hard enough against my ribcage to bruise as I came up behind him and rested my hands on his shoulders.

His muscles immediately bunched.

“What,” he said, his low voice twined with so much danger I tasted it in my throat, “are you doing?”

“Giving you a massage.” I forced my stampeding nerves behind a veneer of calm. This is to help him relax. That’s it. “Don’t tell me you’re opposed to those, too.”

His jaw tightened.

Night had descended, draping the floor-to-ceiling window across from us in inky black. Our reflections were so sharp the window doubled as a mirror.

“You’re giving me a massage.” The inflection of his words was impossible to read.

“That’s what I said. Now, relax.” I kept my voice as low and soothing as possible as I smoothed my palms over his neck and shoulders. His muscles bunched further, which defeated the entire purpose of the exercise. “The other kind of relaxing.”

I loved getting massages, but I enjoyed giving them almost as much. There was something so satisfying about feeling the tension melt beneath my hands and knowing that I’d helped someone feel better, if only temporarily.

It took a while for Christian to relax, but he gradually sank into the couch and tipped his head back, eyes closed.

The air hummed with awareness and the mingled sounds of our soft, even breaths.

I tried to focus on my movements and not on the powerful masculine form draped insouciantly beneath me, like a panther at rest after a long hunt.

Christian’s muscles were sleek and sculpted, all sinuous lines and coiled strength.

Like everything else about him, his body was a lethal, perfectly honed machine.

My eyes drifted up to his face and the dark sweep of his lashes against bronzed cheeks.

Firm, sensual lips, chiseled cheekbones, a straight blade of a nose, and a jaw so perfectly cut Michelangelo must’ve sculpted it himself.

It should be illegal for anyone to possess a face like that.

A lock of thick, dark hair brushed his forehead. Unable to help myself, I smoothed it back and luxuriated in the soft strands as I gently massaged his scalp. Christian’s hair was the perfect length—short enough for easy maintenance, long enough for a woman to run her hands through it while…

Stop. Focus.

I swallowed past the dryness in the throat and the renewed ache in my lower belly.

Below me, the rhythm of Christian’s breathing changed to something harsher, more primal.

I slid my palms down his neck and over his shoulder—

A small gasp sliced through the silence when his hand closed over mine, halting its movements. The iron grip branded my skin with so much heat I felt it in my bones.

“Enough.”

Rough restraint and whiskey glares.