2. Mack

Chapter 2

Mack

Even as I lead her into my office, I know I'm putting myself in an impossible position.

Isabelle's cheeks are bright red as she passes through the adjoining door I hold open for her. The outer office was designed for an assistant, but I haven't liked any of the candidates we've hired lately being that close to me.

This girl, though…

I need her as close as humanly possible, and I'm not prepared to explain why. Not to anyone else, and not even to myself. I just know—this young woman is mine.

Which she can't be. She's young enough to be my daughter, if I'd ever thought of children. I haven't, of course. You don't get to be the head of a multinational company like Emerson Industries with distractions like a family.

I should know—my own father was a tycoon who abandoned me and my mother to focus on his business. Taking over his company and firing him was my singular focus as a young man. After I accomplished that, I buried myself in making a difference in the world.

Standing here now, trying desperately to come up with a reasonable excuse for Isabelle to work for me, with me, under me, in my hands, on my lap, on my face… I've got nothing.

I'm one of the most accomplished men in the world, a shrewd negotiator, and I?—

"Did I do something wrong?" Isabelle asks nervously.

Fuck.

"No, never," I assure her gruffly. "Do you have a resume, Ms. Bright?"

"I submitted it electronically." Her voice pitches up, panicking. The high note is like a live wire attached to my cock. I like that stressed out warble more than I should. I imagine Isabelle Bright would do anything to make up for a transgression like not having a paper copy of her resume on hand.

"That won't do," I say gravely. "I need to hold it in my hands."

I need to hold her in my hands, but she's off-limits, so a black and white printout of her life's story will have to suffice.

But my demand has an unintended consequence—more panic, and not the delicious kind that might make her squirm against me. She looks like she's about to bolt.

"Use my computer to print it," I suggest. I gesture to the leather chair behind my oversized wooden desk. "What do you need, a browser window?"

After a beat of hesitation, she nods, and then we both circle the desk at the same time, putting her right in front of me, blinking up at me…

She smells like her name, bright and hopeful. Like a burst of sunshine warming rain-drenched wildflowers.

"Sorry," she whispers.

"You have nothing to be sorry about," I say gruffly. "I'm making this weird, aren't I?"

She startles. "What?" And then she tries to say no, you aren't … I can see the denial trying to form out of desperation, but I suspect what she told me in the elevator is true: she can't lie. The struggle that riots across her face is adorable. Instead of answering, she huffs and presses her lips together.

I laugh, startling us both. "I'll take that as a yes."

Humiliation stains her cheeks red, and I reach out before I can stop myself, needing to soothe her. It's a mistake, because heat arcs between us, electric and wild, as I brush my thumb gently against her face.

"Mr. Emerson," she breathes.

"Don't ever feel like being honest is wrong," I manage to say around my lust-thickened tongue.

I want to kiss this girl so much, more than I could imagine, and it hurts to hold back.

She sways toward me, her pupils dilated and her lips softening before my eyes.

But unlike her, I am a very capable liar. "Your resume," I say coldly, suddenly stepping back. "I need to see it."

She blinks in confusion, then squares her shoulders even as rejected hurt shimmers in her eyes. "Yes, of course."

I'm a bastard.

After I get a browser window open for her, I step back and cross my arms over my chest, giving myself a chance to think of all the ways that being a callous ass is really protecting her.

I don't take it, because as she settles in my chair, I'm also given a chance to observe her from behind, and that's irresistible.

Straight little spine. A silky blouse that floats over her torso. Cheap fabric I wouldn't feel badly about ripping, but she wears it with pride, so I wouldn't dare. The skirt choice is interesting. It doesn't match the blouse at all, and the wool looks worn in places.

And the way it rides up her thigh, revealing soft, creamy skin, puts the worst sort of innocent girl fantasies in my head.

I'm too fucking old to be getting hard over a kilt riding up a leg.

As if she can feel my gaze, Isabelle reaches down and tugs at the hem. The sight of her fingertips grazing her thigh makes my throat tight.

You can be her boss or her mentor. You cannot be anything else to her.

Fuck.

Because I want to be her everything, without limits.

"Hmm," she murmurs. The soft, thinking sound goes straight to my cock. "This is a different interface…Oh, I get it."

God, her voice is lovely.

Sure, you could mentor her for all of ten seconds before she notices your hard-on, you prat.

I grunt and hunch my shoulders up, trying to think of anything but the velvet curiosity in her voice. Sales projections, hiring targets… nothing works.

She twists around, her blonde waves bobbing against her cheeks. "I should send this to the default printer, I assume?"

I turn my body violently, giving her my back.

No. Stop this. Get out of my office. Wesley will find you a job somewhere else, anywhere else but here. "Yes," I say out loud. "That's the one here." I thump my hand down on it, and it whirs to life. A single sheet of paper feeds into it, then spools out the other side. At the top of the page, Isabelle's name is listed in bold capital letters.

I swallow hard and read down the page. It's not very long.

She took college credits in high school, then worked in a diner while completing her college program this past year.

And she volunteers at the local library as well.

Her short resume is as painfully innocent as the girl herself.

Mine .

No.

That can't be how I think of her.

Slowly, I turn around, just in time to see her scamper around my desk and fly into the chair opposite my desk.

Her kilt twirls around the tops of her thighs, and I swear I see a glimpse of white cotton panties.

Not. Mine.

But I can't stop my heart from tearing itself free of my chest and flinging itself in her direction.

She can't be mine.

No matter what, though, I am now hers.