Page 18 of Right Where I Want You

I raised my eyes. “What will begood?”

Her brows knit. “You and me.Together.”

You and me. Together. This morning, I would’ve liked those sentences strung together a whole lot more. “Huh?”

“Did you hear anything I just said? Vance would like us to share anoffice—”

I shot forward, and my leather chair squeaked. “What?”

She shut her eyes, sighed, and shook her head. “If you have to stare at my breasts, at least try to listen at the same time. Otherwise, this will neverwork.”

My mouth dropped open. Had I been that obvious? I scoffed. “Actually, I was shooting imaginary lasers at your Spankeesjersey.”

“No, youweren’t.”

“Modest, aren’t we? I assure you, your breasts are safe fromme.”

“Why’s that?” she asked, cocking herhead.

I paused. I’d expected something more along the lines of “Thank God for that.” “Because you aren’t mytype.”

She glanced away for only a second. “Then sharing an office shouldn’t be a problem. We won’t have to worry about those pesky non-fraternizationrules.”

She wasteasingme. Or was she flirting? Certainly not—she’d be a stickler for the sexual harassment policies. But then what about that skintight top she’d just flaunted? I refrained from growling, angry that she was getting under my skin. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have thespace.”

She gave me a knowing, if not terse, smile. “You have more space than anyone other thanVance.”

“Then impose onhim.”

“He’s not even on this floor, and anyway, he wants me in here. Says it makes the most sense since you and I will be working closely together. And I won’t be an imposition,promise.”

“My desk is organized just the way I like it,” I said. “Everything has its spot, and I don’t do well with people touching mythings.”

She glanced at my desk. “Vance is trying to arrange one for me. I mean, it certainly won’t be anything likethat,but. . .”

I frowned. “Likewhat?”

“Did you blow your first paycheck on office furniture? What is that,mahogany?”

“It is,actually.”

She opened her purse and pulled out her phone as she murmured something aboutovercompensating.

That was thelaststraw.Overcompensating? Fuckno.

By city standards, my cock qualified as a smallskyscraper.

I had so much junk, the New York City Sanitation Department had tried to haul itaway.

The only private dick more famous than mine was SherlockHolmes.

I started to suggest she dial upanyof my exes to see if I had reason to overcompensate, but my desk phone rang. I snatched up the receiver. “What?”

“Is George Kellerthere?”

“Jesus Christ,” I muttered. “This ismyoffice. SebastianQuinn.”

“I know, Mr. Quinn. It’s Mary at the front desk. Is Georgethere?”