The Wrong Wife (Morally Grey Billionaires #5)(9)

I purse my lips. "And you want me to work for him?”





5





Knight





"You want to work for me?" I lean back in my armchair. My jacket stretches across my shoulders. The collar of my shirt digs into my throat. My fingers tingle. I want to rip off the tie and fling it across the room—or perhaps, use it to blindfold the wide-eyed gaze of the woman who’s staring at me from the doorway of my office. Her blue eyes are large, round, and surprised, her pink lips slightly parted. Her blonde hair is streaked pink and halos her heart-shaped face. She’s wearing a suit—which is, you guessed it, pink—with a skirt that comes to above her knees. It hints at her plump thighs. Thighs which would be creamy and soft and perfect for marking with my fingers. My dick twitches. The first sign of life I’ve felt there since my escape from the enemy.

Darkness. Black. Pressing down on me. Sweat. The acrid scent of my body odor, the thick stench of my own piss and shit. The cold wraps its arms around me, my muscles quivering and twitching under my skin to generate some warmth. My arms are pulled up and tied to a rope attached to the ceiling, and I’m balanced on tiptoes. Every time my eyelids close and I nod off, I stumble forward, and my restraint stretches tight. I jerk upright. Don’t open my eyes. Let the quiet settle around me, except for the drip-drip-drip of water in some corner of the basement I’m being held in. Then with a clang, the door to my prison squeaks open. A shudder grips me. My guts churn. My heart jackhammers against my ribcage. No, not yet. I’m not ready, I—

"Hey, you okay?"

The noise in my mind retreats enough that I can focus on the pint-sized woman who’s staring at me. I glare at her, and some of the color fades from her face.

I keep staring at her, and for a few seconds, she meets my gaze. Then, she shuffles her feet and secures her handbag—also an eye-watering shade of—y-e-a-p—pink—over her shoulder. The silence stretches. I continue to take in her features, the pointed edge of her chin, the soft skin of her throat, which seems like it’s never been touched by anyone except her.

I’d be the first. Her first. A flare of lust unfurls down my spine. In the days since I escaped, I’ve been sure I’d never be interested in sex again. The sight of anyone else made me want to yell at them to get out of my way. In the forty-eight hours I’ve occupied this office, I’ve alienated my staff. Not a great start.

Working on the kinds of missions I did, I had the eyes and ears of an entire team behind me to help me navigate. I owed every successful operation I had to them. When I was captured, it was due to my own carelessness. My unit had never failed me. No one knew the importance of building relationships and fostering loyalty among your crew more than me. Considering that's not going to happen as long as I'm coming to grips with the events of the past six months, it makes sense to have someone act as a buffer between me and the organization. But is that person this curvy Barbie-doll lookalike? I’m not sure.

"Hey!" Her fuchsia heels sink into the carpet as she crosses the floor. "Are you okay? Should I call Abby?" She pauses in between the chairs pushed into the opposite side of my desk. "You seem like you’re in a daze." She laughs, a high-pitched wheeze. Nervousness undulates off of her. I draw in a breath and the scent of roses—her scent laced with the sugary-sweet notes of… Her arousal?— fills my senses. I narrow my gaze on her.

"Ah… if you don’t want to talk. I understand. It must be tough for you to adjust back into civilian life, after all." She scans my features. "You took off your bandage."

I stare at her.

She giggles, the sound nervous. "Sorry, I’m stating the obvious. That scar looks good on you."

I resist the urge to raise my hand and trace the outline of the slash across my left cheek. Too bad the wounds inside are not going to heal as quickly.

She continues to study me. "Your jawline does look more pronounced since I last saw you, and you have dark circles under your eyes. Have you been sleeping well?"

My frown deepens.

She opens and shuts her mouth. "Oh, my god. That was such a stupid thing to say."

Ya think?

"Of course, you’re not sleeping. In fact, if you've gotten any shut-eye since you returned, my carriage will turn into a pumpkin at midnight."

I scowl. What the hell is she talking about? Have I wandered into an alternate reality filled with blonde, curvy women who shoot their mouths off while looking like plus-size-Barbies?

"That was Cinderella, though. My personal favorite is Beast and the Beauty. I mean, Beauty and the Beast. Not that you’re the Beast, or I’m the Beauty. No, I certainly didn’t mean to imply that you're the Beast, even though you don’t smile, and you certainly are large and tall and broad and have the most massive shoulders I’ve seen on anyone—and this, after you lost weight since I saw you when you came to bid Abby goodbye before you left to wherever you did. And I didn’t ask Abby about your mission, no siree." She shakes her head. "Nope, not me. And I certainly didn’t probe her about you. I mean, I’m not interested in you that way. Not at all."

Maybe she didn't probe Abby about me, but I'd like to probe her. I arch an eyebrow.

She chews on her thumbnail, and when I stare at it, she reddens further. She lowers her arm, then shoves it behind her back for good measure. "Bad habit, sorry. Don’t know why I’m apologizing to you for it, anyway." She straightens her spine. "Also, I shouldn’t have said that, should I? I shouldn’t be talking at all, but you don’t speak, though you did ask me when I arrived if I wanted to work for you, and—" She shuffles her feet. "I’m not sure I want to. You’re a grump and I’m a people-person—"