Page 51

Even the thought of seeing him again doesn’t erase the naked flame of terror at what my carelessness could cost me. I listen with diminished attention as the chef rumbles through the intricacies of serving the CEO’s meal. I nod through it but have forgotten most of it by the time I wheel the trolley through Quinn’s frosted double doors.
He’s seated at his desk, as usual.
His gaze snaps to me the moment the door shuts, and stays riveted on me. As usual.
By the fourth or fifth step, my legs threaten to give way beneath the gravitational power of his stare. Nothing new there either. I arrive at the dining table without mishap, but still a little lost in my head.
“I thought we agreed on the general etiquette surrounding entering a room?”
My God. His voice.
It’s deep, cultured, oiled with class and money and power and glory. The kind of voice that stops you in your tracks, that makes you want to throw your softness at his hardness, bruise yourself on his attention.
The complete compulsion of his voice and stare swivels me round to face him.
“I’m sorry. Good afternoon, Mr. Blackwood.”
He recaps his black ballpoint pen and sets it down with a precise action. His eyes never leave my face. “Good afternoon, Elly.”
I turn around and start laying his table. I know the moment he rises and walks to the front of his desk because the air thickens with awareness.
“Have you had lunch yet?” The same question as before.
A different answer today, courtesy of a text from Fionnella during my break to say she won’t be feeding me this afternoon. “No. Not yet.”
“Set a place for yourself.”
I freeze for a moment, then curb the turbulent rush of emotion. “Ah, no thanks. I’m good.”
I’m so attuned to him, I know the moment he straightens and heads toward me. His aura slams into me long before the spicy sandalwood of his aftershave wraps around me. “I hate to disagree with you, but no, you’re not good.”
I’m dying to look up into those piercing silver blue eyes, but I fear it’ll be my undoing. So I transfer dishes from trolley to table and check that the requisite distances are achieved. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Have you been ill recently, Elly?”
The question surprises me enough to make me abandon my vow not to look at him. I meet electric eyes that trap mine for a second before raking over me. “No…I haven’t.”
“You don’t like food, is that it?” he drawls. “Is that why you look so…breakable?”
“No, I love food.”
He nods. “So, it must be me then?”
“You…what?”
“The idea of eating with me fills you with horror?”
My eyes widen. “I…no.”
“Then set a place for yourself.”
Sitting opposite him while he eats, waiting to collect his dishes is one thing. Despite the alarming intensity of it, it’s what I’m paid to do. Eating with him, tasting the same food he’s putting into his mouth…
I shake my head. “I can’t.”
He takes a single step toward me and I’m drenched in his substance. Today, he’s wearing a navy suit with a navy shirt one shade deeper. A black pinstriped tie, black belt and polished dress shoes complete the stunning ensemble. On his wrist, a streamlined silver watch gleams. We’re still outside, arm’s length of each other, but he may as well be binding me in ropes. Such is the power of Quinn Blackwood’s force field.
He rests a hand flat on the table, next to his plate. “Whose name is at the top of the building, Elly?”