Page 12

EMMA

T he late-night encounter with Klaus Sinclair feels like something out of a dream.

I play the moment in my head over and over again until I fall asleep. It's not until I wake up the following morning that I remember the email sitting in my inbox.

I should delete it for my peace of mind, but I never do. I collect them as evidence in case I ever need them.

Before the fear can paralyze me, I get out of bed.

I take deep breaths and focus on the golden sunlight slicing through the gaps between the curtains. I go through my usual routine—ten minutes of yoga, brushing my teeth, a large glass of water, and then a shower.

Half an hour later, I'm in much better spirits.

I stand in front of the closet with a soft towel wrapped around my body. My fingers linger over the sensible blouse and black pants. Something in me rebels against it. The darkness in my body has dissipated now, replaced by something light and bubbly.

A voice in my head insists that looking presentable isn't enough. I want to look decadent for Klaus Sinclair.

Instead of casting away the intrusive thought, I listen to it.

My heels click against the veined marble as I descend the staircase.

When I reach the dining area, I find that everyone is already here. Even Mr. Sinclair.

"Good morning," I say softly, tucking my hair behind my ear. Out of nowhere, I feel self-conscious.

"Miss Emma," James says, surprise lighting up his face.

His sister glances up at me, her mouth twitching in a half-hearted acknowledgment. Her uncle, on the other hand, gives me his complete, undivided attention.

His eyes flick down the length of my body.

Delicious fire erupts across my skin.

I'm wearing a little tweed skirt that skims the tops of my thighs. I paired it with a black turtleneck that hugs my curves. Sheer black stockings cover my thighs, but the skirt is still a little too short.

When our eyes lock, a muscle in his jaw jumps.

"Please have a seat, Miss Turner," he says, gesturing to an empty seat opposite the kids. It's also the one that's right next to his.

As I sit down, my skirt hikes higher up my thighs. I feel his eyes zeroing in on the space between my legs. His jaw is clenched so hard that it looks like it's going to shatter. I'm pretty sure I just flashed my panties at my billionaire boss.

I did not think this through.

My heart races as I serve myself some scrambled eggs and fruit. At this rate, I'm pretty sure my heart will explode from all the stress it's been under lately.

"I can't believe you're actually here," little James says, looking at me with wide eyes.

"Of course I'm here," I say, smiling at the kid. "Breakfast is the most important meal of the day."

"I thought I would never see you again," he says.

Something about the way he says that is strange. He's looking at me like I'm the last person he expected to see this morning.

"Are you excited to finish your painting today?" I ask him.

"What painting?" His eyebrows furrow.

"The one we started yesterday?"

I glance at Rosalie for help, but she's busy dicing her cheese omelet into bite-sized pieces.

"You were here yesterday?" James asks.

His question catches me off guard. He doesn't remember that I was here yesterday.

I glance over at Mr. Sinclair to find that he's already looking at me.

"Emma, may I have a word with you in private?" he asks.

He stands abruptly and waits for me to follow him. I dab my lips with a napkin before standing.

I have zero clue what's going on right now. Judging by the storm in Mr. Sinclair's eyes, it's nothing good.

He guides me into a sunlit sitting room and halts by a towering window.

Right as I reach the window, my footcatches on the edge of a rug, making me lose my balance. Before I can fall, his big hands wrap around my waist.

Our eyes lock as every ounce of blood in my body rushes to my heart, where it gathers and gathers before exploding.

"Thank you," I say.

His gaze narrows on my lips, like their very existence pisses him off.He glances down at his hands, then letsgo of me like he's been electrocuted.

"If you can't walk in high heels, don't wear them," he snaps.

"I was doing just fine." I cross my arms in front of my chest.

"Clearly," he huffs.

This heated exchange feels like déjà vu. It feels like a conversation we've had before. It feels like hundreds of conversations we've yet to have.

"What did you want to talk about?" I ask.

"You," he says. "I wanted to talk about you."

"What about me?"

He glances down at my outfit, his eyes lingering everywhere. It should feel degrading and crude, but...I just want to bask under his gaze.

"First of all, what the hell?" he grinds out.

I fight the urge to fidget under his scrutiny.

"What?" I say nonchalantly.

"You didn't have anything else to wear?" he asks.

"Do you have a problem with how I dress, Mr. Sinclair?" I ask, tilting my head at him.

"Yes, it makes my cock hard," he says. "But you already knew that. Maybe it's what you wanted."

I suck in a sharp breath.

This man actually just said that out loud.

"What's the matter, Emma?" he asks. "You're looking at me like you weren't begging for my touch last night."

His words are harsh, but there's more to it. There's a panic in his eyes. It was born when he held my waist to keep me from falling.

"You don't like physical touch," I comment.

There's a flash of something in his eyes. In that single moment, I see the past versions of him that existed before the world stole his innocence. But it's gone before I can make sense of it.

"You're the nanny, Miss Turner," he says. "Stop trying to play therapist."

His words are meant to sting. And they do.

I've always been self-conscious about only having a high school diploma. And the words he just spat at me hurt a part of me that was already wounded.

I clear my throat. "Did you pull me aside just to say you don't like what I'm wearing?"

"Oh, I like what you're wearing," he says. "If anything, I like it a little too much. And you can see why that's a problem, right?"

"I don't see what's wrong with my outfit," I say, tilting my chin up at him.

"It makes you look like you're trying too hard," he says. "I see what you're doing, and it's pathetic, really."

I grit my teeth as I stare back at him. This man reeks of arrogance, and I want nothing more than to put him in his place.

"Since you're sharing your opinion so freely, I'll share mine, too," I say. "I fucking despise men like you. You think you can say whatever you want to whoever you want and get away with it. Even though I've been nothing but respectful to you, you insist on being an asshole to me."

His jaw clenches once, twice as he watches me.

"That's where I disagree," he says.

"What?"

"You said that you were respectful to me, but that's not the case. I find your short little skirt very disrespectful. In fact, I find it downright offensive."

The way he's looking at me makes hot lava form inside me. It makes me forget all the reasons I'm supposed to stay far away from men like Klaus Sinclair.

I become heated from the inside out.

I can't deny it.

I want this man.

We're crossing all the invisible lines with every interaction we have.

The scar on his face seems to glow under the sunlight. I can make out the amber striations in his dark eyes. I see him in vivid detail, and I've never been this fascinated by another person.

"Something is wrong with James," I say finally. "He doesn't remember anything about yesterday. Do you have something to do with that?"

"What is it that you're asking me, Emma?" His eyes darken once more.

"I saw you last night," I say. "I saw you in the kids’ bedroom.I saw you give something to James."

His eyes bore a hole into my face, daring me to speak another word.

"So you're spying on me now?" He doesn't seem even slightly surprised. He already knew.

"What did you give to James?" I ask, standing my ground.

"That's not really any of your business now, is it?"

"It's literally my job to take care of these kids."

"And you think I'm a threat to their well-being?" he asks.

"Stop putting words in my mouth," I say. "All I'm saying is that I saw you give James something, and now, he doesn't remember anything about yesterday."

He stares at me for a long moment.

"You excluded certain things from your résumé," he says.

"Sorry?"

"You're a security threat to the kids," he says.

I raise my eyebrows. "What are you talking about?"

"Why didn't you tell me you had a stalker, Emma?" he asks.

The blood drains from my face. My feet grow numb. I brace my hand against the wall to steady myself.

"Multiple break-ins into your house. Anonymous calls. Threatening text messages. You even suspect that he poisoned your grandmother, who is now hospitalized for a mysterious illness," he says.

"How do you know this?" I ask. "All of this is classified information."

"Answer my question first," he says. "Why didn't you mention this while applying for the job?"

My chest constricts. I feel like I'm in the middle of a marathon, and there's no end in sight. Every breath I take is labored. Too many thoughts race through my head.

"I didn't mention it because that's a part of my life I wish to keep separate," I say. "It's not something I like to think about, much less talk about."

Because every time I do, it consumes me. I become submerged in an ocean of fear, and there's no helping hand to pull me out.

"You never filed an official report with the police?" he asks.

I shake my head.

"Why not?" His voice is as gentle as it can be.

"It'll get worse if I tell anyone," I say.

"He made you believe that?"

"I know it." I know him .

"Has he made any attempts to contact you after you came here?"

I look at him, wondering what he's going to do.

He has every reason to fire me. I have a stalker, and I didn't inform him about it. He can even sue me and the agency if he wants to.

"He did, didn't he?" he asks.

"He sent an email."

"When?"

"Last night," I say. "Right before I ran into you by the swimming pool."