Page 285 of The Morally Grey Billionaires Boxset

It must feed his already inflated ego to see women melt into incoherent blobs of goo wherever he goes. As if to illustrate my point, the receptionist swallows, then stutters, "M-Mr. Warren, she doesn’t have an appointment to—"

"She doesn’t need one. She’s my new assistant, Penny Easton."

The receptionist gapes. "Y-y-your new assistant?"

"Put her on the list of people who have twenty-four seven access to me."

"Twenty-four seven?" It’s my turn to gape. I stare at him over my shoulder. "But I don’t need twenty-four seven access."

"Yes, you do." He locks his fingers above my elbow, and tendrils of heat vibrate out from his touch, arrowing straight to my core. My nipples harden, and I find myself swaying toward him to draw in his sea-breeze scent. Then, he’s steering me around the receptionist’s desk and toward an elevator set at the far side of the lobby.

He stabs the button, and the doors open.

He pushes me in, steps in after me, then presses his thumb onto a pad.

The dashboard illuminates with a green light, and the car rises upward.

It’s so smooth, it’s only the progression of numbers in the floor display panel that indicates our upward movement.

The elevator doors are buffed to a high polish that reflects back both of us.

He releases me and moves to stand to the opposite side of the car, putting as much distance as possible between us, and a shiver runs down my spine.

How is it possible to miss his warmth when he doesn’t mean anything to me?

He’s an egotistical, pompous bastard who thinks no one can disregard his orders.

"If you think paying for my mother’s stay at the care home means you’ve bought me, then you’re—" I firm my lips, for he’s turned those startling green eyes on me. My words stick in my throat. Am I going to deny why I came to see him? Sure, it was to tell him off, but also to say I’d work for him.

The relief I felt knowing my mother doesn’t have to leave the home made me understand my priorities.

It doesn’t matter what I have to do to keep her in there.

Doesn’t matter that I'm going to work for the devil himself. Nothing matters as much as making sure she's comfortable and safe and content in her last days. And the bastard knows it. That’s why he paid for her for the next twelve months. Which means, I’m effectively bound to this job for that much time, at least. The fight goes out of me, and I glance away.

He notices it but doesn’t say a word. He could gloat about how he’s been proven right about the job, but he stays silent.

The elevator slides to a stop at the top floor of the building.

He couldn’t have his office anywhere else but where he’d be the lord and master of all he surveys, of course.

The doors open, and he gestures for me to step out, then leads the way.

This time, he doesn’t touch me. The first time I met him here, I was too nervous about the prospect of working for him to take in my surroundings.

Now, I follow him past the rooms with executives still at their desks—apparently, people here work late nights—a small conference room with two other executives engaged in discussion, then two larger ones which are empty, and a workstation set outside double doors. He opens one and ushers me in.

I walk into what I know is his office. I noticed how spacious it was the last time, but this time, the details sink in. It has to be triple the size of the apartment I share with Mira.

Floor-to-ceiling windows cover one side, and I can see the Thames and the large imposing building which houses the MI5 on the opposite bank of the river.

In the distance, the London Eye gleams in the evening sunshine.

He props a hip on the massive desk that is set against another bank of windows.

There’s a laptop, three screens, and a couple of papers stacked one on top of the other in a neat pile.

Other than that, the surface is spotless.

On the far end of the room is a bookcase—or rather shelves of a bookcase which are empty—that lines a wall, and in front of it is a seating area.

There’s a sofa with its back to the bookcase, a coffee table in front of it, and two chairs on either side.

Next to it is a door which I assume leads to an ensuite bathroom.

In another corner is a long table with chairs, and a screen on the wall—a space meant for more formal meetings.

Next to that is a wet bar, and adjoining the room is a kitchenette.

Whoa, it’s a self-contained unit. A self-contained, not very lived-in unit.

There’s no art on the walls, no empty coffee cup, no pictures.

Except for the papers on top of his work desk.

It’s a sterile room, with a stunning view dominating the space.

Unable to resist the view, I walk over to the window and glance out.

The hair on the back of my neck rises, and I know he’s watching me.

I tighten my hold on my bag and continue to stare ahead.

If I turn to him, I have to face the fact that I’m at his mercy.

And would that be so bad? What the—! I did not think that.

I did not! And I can’t hide away by looking at the view, either.

"So,"—I point at the MI5 headquarters—"is it true that, though you were in the army, you were on a secret mission for the MI5 when you were captured?"

The silence in the space seems to deepen.

The temperature seems to drop until it’s frigid in here.

I wouldn’t be surprised to see my breath forming puffs of condensation in front of me.

Goosebumps rattle up my skin. I mentally slap myself.

Nice one, you went and said the one thing that he didn’t need to hear.

The one thing that’s probably giving him flashbacks to his capture and to whatever was done to him there, and I had to bring it up.

I draw in a breath, then square my shoulders. "Okay, sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t mean to constantly bring back memories of your time as a prisoner of war. It’s just—"

Heat sears my back. I turn and gasp, for he’s standing right behind me.