muscular arms that his thousand-dollar dress shirt couldn’t hide. He had olive skin and a thick head of hair—strong, handsome features. He would have been too good-looking if it weren’t for the fierceness of his features. He looked like the kind of man who chased confrontation down and then ate it for breakfast. Phone to his ear, his knuckles were still rapping the glass when my eyes met his. He pointed one finger at me and then motioned for me to come, turning his back and pacing away without waiting for a response. Uh-oh.
I must have had panic on my face when Ms. Featherston turned back to me. Her stiff expression softened slightly; her tone was a little kinder, but still firm.
“Go on in,” she said. “He wants you.”
Ms. Featherston returned her attention to the file. I glanced around, looking for an escape, and then, wobbly, made my way around the secretary stand to the door of the office. Brad De Luca was printed on a brass nameplate in the center of the door. Broward is going to kill me.
I opened the door without knocking and walked in, shutting it quietly behind me. I stood by the entrance, hands together in front of me, and waited for De Luca to get off the phone. His office was long, and there seemed to be a silly amount of space between where I stood and where he paced. I’m not moving a damn step closer to this man if I can help it. I seemed to be having trouble breathing. My chest was tight. Beads of sweat were forming on my upper lip. I tried to discreetly wipe them off. What the hell am I so nervous about? He’s not going to eat me, for Christ’s sake.
He finished his conversation and hung up the phone, staring at me. Looking into his eyes, I felt my knees buckle slightly. There was this draw to him, this indescribable pull that I couldn’t break from. He emitted, even across the large office, a wave of power, intelligence...and sexuality. No freaking wonder everyone talked about this man. Seeming to be completely at ease, he picked up a stress ball and squeezed it, never breaking eye contact. I felt like an innocent little fawn stuck in the lion’s gaze. I stayed quiet and waited for his gorgeous self to say something.
“I need a car,” he finally said. His voice was sexy and deep, definitive. He sounded like a man who had never second-guessed a single action his entire life. I, on the other hand, was second-guessing every predisposed opinion I had made about him. Maybe Broward and Sheila were right to be worried.
“A car?” My voice came out a little higher than I had intended, almost a squeak. I definitely needed to get my shit together.
“Yes. I know the casino typically handles my transportation, but I plan to go on a side trip this weekend, and want a car.” He picked up his phone and started to punch in a number, as if to indicate that our conversation was over. Then he paused, looking at me again, closer, his eyes narrowing slightly, his gaze sweeping over my body in an obvious perusal. I bristled slightly, crossing my arms over my chest, feeling my cheeks warm.
When he spoke, his tone was slightly confused. “Have you done something different?”
“Different?” I didn’t really know what to say. This was the strangest interaction I had ever had. I’m sure he was blown away by my verbose and witty conversation.
He came around the desk slightly, eyes locked again on mine. Please don’t come closer. “You look...different.”
I felt as if I was in Crazy Town. Has he seen me before? “I’m wearing glasses.”
De Luca looked at me again, then something flipped in his eyes, a moment of understanding. He turned away from me, continuing to dial a number, and I understood that our interchange was over.
That was freaking weird.
I walked back to the center desk and waited for Ms. Featherston to look up. She did, after a moment.
“Mr. De Luca asked me to reserve a car? For this weekend?” I sounded inept, even to my own ears.
Featherston looked confused, and then her expression cleared. Her mouth curved into something resembling a smile. “He thinks you’re Tiffany,” she said wryly.
“Who?”
“Tiffany. The girl downstairs who handles travel arrangements. You look like her...slightly. He must have gotten confused. I’ll make sure she gets the message.” She shot me an amused look and then refocused on her computer.
I turned on my heel and headed for the doors, wanting to get back to the normalcy of the West Wing. Wow, talk about an ego check. What a...jerk! So caught up in his own world he mistakes me for someone else—like all of us are bland, interchangeable slaves waiting around to jump to his ridiculous travel needs? I could feel my irritation building. I pulled my shoulders back and straightened my head, enjoying the anger coursing through my body. It felt good having some of my backbone again.
Back at my desk, I pulled out my cell and sent a quick text to Olivia. Dinner and drinks tonight?
Her response was quick, and affirmative. We agreed, through a series of texts, to meet at 8:00 p.m. at Café Salsa, a downtown tapas bar known for their great bands. I locked my phone and put it back in my purse. I planned on enjoying this Broward-free week, and damned if I’d let that asshole De Luca affect it. I attacked my pile of files with new gusto.
* * *
A few moments after the double doors closed behind that delicious ass, Brad dialed a second number, watching the stately secretary outside his office answer her phone.
“Yes, Mr. De Luca?”
“Who was that?”
A soft chuckle sounded in his ear, and she spun in her chair, meeting his eyes through the thick glass. “That was one of the interns. Kent Broward’s.” She looked at him with a glare that would melt a lesser man’s skin. “I trust this will be the last I see of her?”
He met her glare and smiled, turning away and walking to his desk. “I’ll think about it.”
* * *
That night, I dressed to kill, picking out a red minidress and sky-high nude stilettos. I straightened my hair and carefully applied my makeup. Putting on my sexiest lace bra and a matching thong, I shimmied into my dress and then dusted bronzer over my legs, chest and arms. A small black purse in hand, I stood in front of the mirror and gave myself the once-over. Hot damn, woman. You are looking good.
At five minutes before eight, Olivia pulled up outside my apartment in her old gray Ford Explorer, blaring Katy Perry. I skittered out on my heels, navigating the overgrown path with care. Entering Olivia’s SUV was like crawling into a bubblegum bubble. It smelled yummy and completely feminine, and said girl as loud as the feather boa hanging from the rearview mirror could scream.
We sang and car-danced the ten minutes to Café, my spirits rising with every chorus. At the restaurant, we got a great corner table with a view of the dance floor and bar.
“So, give me the goods,” she demanded as soon as we sat down.
“What goods?”
“You know! On your new job, life, everything! I haven’t seen you in over two weeks, and last weekend didn’t count! Becca was there, and that prevents any real conversation from occurring.” She giggled to soften her point, but we both knew she meant it. Becca was wonderful, but Becca was all about Becca, twenty-four hours a day. “Any word from Luke?”
I rolled my eyes at her reference to my ex. “No, thank God. He doesn’t know about my internship, and I don’t think anyone has told him where I live. Has he called you anymore?”
She shook her head in response. “Just that one time. I think I made it pretty clear to him then that he wasn’t going to get any information from me.”
I brought my martini up to signal a toast. She followed suit.
“To new beginnings.”
“To new beginnings,” she parroted. We clinked glasses and both took generous sips.
“So, tell me about the new job.” Her eyes glimmered. “Anything going on with