Chapter 1

1

June

"In the six months since Knox Davenport took over as the interim CEO of the Davenport Group media division, he's run through a string of assistants. He has a chronic bad attitude." The Human Resources Manager wrings her hands. "He is grumpy. And irritable. And ill-tempered. Not to mention, impatient. He's not an easy man to please."

I swallow. He sounds like an absolute nightmare to work for, if I'm being honest. But it's not like I have a choice. I've been without a job for six months. I've exhausted my savings and had to go into debt to take care of my family. I'd hoped to engage an adoption search specialist to track down my birth mother; but now, I don't have the money to do that either. Then I heard about this position from my friend Zoey.

I applied and was sure I wouldn't get an acknowledgement of my application. So, imagine my surprise when I got a call to interview. You can bet, I'm not going to mess up this opportunity.

"How much did you say the position pays?" I ask .

She names a monthly salary, which is more than I earned in a year in any of my previous roles. My gaze widens, and my jaw drops.

"It's generous"—she nods—"for a reason."

"Oh?" I push my oversized spectacles up my nose.

"Most of his assistants quit within the hour, thanks to his unpleasant temperament." She shudders. "Those who made it past that left before the end of the day. They found it too traumatizing to look at his"—she gestures to her face— "you know?"

"I don't actually." What is she referring to? I researched the Davenport Group and its management team before I came here. I even drew up a plan on how to address weaknesses I noticed in the company's image, which I hoped to present during my interview. However, I didn't find anything alluding to whatever it is she's referring to.

She notices the chagrin on my face and leans in, then beckons me closer.

I mirror her move.

"He used to be a commando in the Royal Marines, which is where he was disfigured. His features are rather grotesque," she says in a stage whisper.

I stare at her. Some of my shock at her statement must show on my face, for she raises her hand. "I know, it may seem impolite for me to share that, but I think it's best to prepare you for what you're going to see." She folds her arms across her chest. "On the positive side, there's no fear of you falling for him." She shrugs.

Me? Falling for my future boss? I scowl. You can bet I'm not going there. Getting this job and keeping it, so I can earn enough to take care of my family, is of the utmost importance. I'd never screw that up.

"In fact, you won't find it difficult to keep your attention from his face, for the rest of him is sooo built." She blinks rapidly. "It makes you want to touch his chest to find out if the muscles under it are as sculpted as his shirt hints at…" She reddens.

I can't stop myself from scowling. I don't know this guy, but I feel like I should tell her not to objectify him. But before I can voice my opinion, she firms her lips. "Gosh, I shouldn't have said that. In fact, forget I said that. I tend to lose track of my thoughts where The Beast is concerned."

"The beast?" My frown deepens .

"With a capital B. That's the nickname we have for him." She squirms in her seat. "I shouldn't have revealed that, either."

No, you shouldn't have. And you're the HR Manager, lady . It's so inappropriate that she indulges in office gossip.

She must realize that she's crossed a line, for she sits upright. "Forget I said that, please." She waves her hand in the air, as if that will remove the images she's put in my head.

She picks up her tablet and scrolls across her screen. "You haven't had an office-based job in a while?"

"Uh, yeah, the job market hasn't been the best." I shuffle my feet. "I couldn't get an office assistant role, so I worked as a waitress for a while."

"Hmph." She makes the sound under her breath, but I hear it. "Waitress, huh?"

There's no missing the judgement in her tone.

My cheeks flush. "Being a waitress helped me learn the importance of interpersonal skills."

"Oh?" She seems taken aback by my words.

I should stop my outburst, but I must defend myself. Besides, this is where I can make an impassioned plea for the job.

I nod. "It helped build my stamina by being on my feet all day. And of course, develop a thick skin from warding off insults from rude patrons. Not to mention, unwanted attention from male customers." I set my jaw, "In my humble opinion, it shows that I have resilience." Something I believe will put me in good stead, from what she's told me about this role. That I keep to myself. But I can't prevent myself from adding, "It also indicates that I have perseverance. I don't give up easily."

Something in my words seems to have struck home, for she nods slowly. "I suppose you have a point." She sighs, "Your resume isn't ideal. I'd have preferred someone with more relevant experience for this role, but we're out of alternatives."

I should feel slighted by her implication that I'm their last option, but I don't care. If I get this opportunity, and that extravagant salary which comes with it, that's what matters.

She looks up from her device, reaches for her phone, and dials a number. When the person at the other end answers, she says, "Will you come in please? "

In seconds, the door opens and the young girl I passed at the desk outside the HR Manager's office walks in.

"Zelda, will you show June to her workstation?" The HR lady puts away her device and turns to her screen.

"What do you mean?" I frown.

"You want the job, don't you?" She toggles her mouse to wake up her computer.

I nod.

"It's yours," she responds without looking away from her screen.

"You mean?—"

"You start right away."

"Today?" I gape. I got the job? "But doesn't he want to interview me?"

"Knox Davenport doesn't interview his assistants; he's too busy making money." She shakes her head. "Please bring in a photo ID and proof of residence tomorrow, so I can prepare the necessary paperwork." She begins to type rapid-fire, indicating she's done with me.

This woman needs a crash-course in etiquette, but my outrage pales in light of the fact I'm now gainfully employed. I was sure I'd botched the meeting, but apparently not. If I'm getting the position without having to interview with the boss, then hey, I'll take it. Joy bubbles up in my chest.

My entire being feels like it's glowing. I want to fist-pump the air but stop myself. Instead, I lower my chin and strive for a neutral voice. "Thank you, I won't let you down."

When she doesn't reply, I hook my bag over my shoulder, rise to my feet and follow Zelda to the elevator, then up to the top floor of the building.

The doors open to a corridor and when I step on the carpet, my three-inch Jimmy Choo knockoffs sink into the plush surface. It's like I'm floating on a cloud. And it's so quiet, I can hear the sound of my heart beating. Or maybe, that's because I'm nervous?

"This is the executive floor," Zelda tells me in a hushed voice. Her blonde curls frame her doll-like features. She's dressed in a black dress that wouldn't be out of place at a nightclub. In comparison, my skirt's hemline falls below my knees and my jacket, which I thought smartened my get-up, makes me feel dowdy and overdressed. I shove those thoughts aside and pay attention to my surroundings .

There are glass-enclosed offices on either side of the corridor, with men and women focused on their computer screens or on their phones. In the center of the room are desks with more men and women busily typing away on keyboards. None of them look up as I pass. One of the women almost meets my eye then looks away. Huh? Maybe she was in the middle of something? I brush aside her reaction and follow Zelda to the double doors at the end of the corridor.

Unlike the other offices with glass walls and doors, these doors are made of wood, and the walls are made of concrete. Seems Mr. Knox Davenport relishes his privacy. There's a definite do-not-disturb vibe radiating off of the closed doors to his office.

Zelda indicates the desk at the side. "This's yours."

A wave of happiness sweeps through me. I've hoped for this moment for so long. I've dreamed about a job in a nice office, where I'd be surrounded by industrious colleagues and a boss who'd encourage me, challenge me, and give me the chance to prove myself. But I never thought I'd achieve that position. I walk over and slide into the chair, then place my handbag on the desk.

"The password for the computer is on the post-it note." She gestures to where it's stuck to the computer screen. "The kitchen is through that door."

"Right." I key the password into the computer screen. It unlocks, and I find myself in an inbox. "The email address belongs to someone called Kelly," I point out.

She nods. "That would be his first assistant, who lasted for less than an hour. After that, we didn't bother setting up a new email addresses because it felt like a waste of time."

Right.

"There are a lot of unanswered emails," I say slowly. Over a thousand, to be precise.

"The last assistant quit three weeks ago. After that, we ran out of agencies to send us people, so—" The phone on the desk rings. I jump, then stare at the instrument on the desk.

"Are you going to answer that?" the woman asks. A thread of impatience runs through her tone.

I stare at the phone for a few more seconds—I don't even know what I'm supposed to say—then slowly reach for it. I lift the receiver, clear my throat, but before I can speak a word, a dark male voice growls, "Bring me the reports for the sales meeting. Cancel my five p.m. Send a Tiffany's bracelet and flowers to Rita."

What the—? I grab hold of a pen and start writing on the note pad that's helpfully placed next to the phone.

"I need my tux for this evening. My lunch better not be late. Tell the agency if they don't send in the proofs for the advertisements by four p.m., they can stuff 'em where the sun don't shine." My boss pauses. "And tell my pilot to ready the jet by six p.m. I have a dinner appointment in Brussels."

His voice is so demanding, so assertive, that heat flushes my skin. I push aside my reaction and focus on scrawling his orders.

"Also, I need a fresh cup of coffee, and it better not be cold," he snipes.

I draw in a sharp breath, then ask, "How do you take your—" The line goes dead.

I stare at the receiver. I have to assume that it's The Beast with the capital B. He sounded like one. And his voice was gruff and dark and so…so… Hot. I swallow.

I hate how he spoke to me. But even more, I hate the fact that I found his voice so tantalizing. I push aside the thought and focus on the list The Beast gave me. First, the coffee. "I don't suppose you know—" I raise my gaze to find I'm alone.

Zelda's walking down the corridor. She stops to speak to one of the women working outside another one of the offices. Both turn to look at me. Their faces reflect pity. The older woman makes the sign of the cross.

Excuse me? Did she just—? I'm aware, I‘m gaping. I school my features into a neutral expression and ignore the sense of foreboding rippling through me.

They turn back to each other and exchange a few more words before Zelda walks off.

My ribcage tightens. She brushed me off. All of a sudden, I feel like I'm back in high school, being ignored by the cool kids. I push up the glasses on my nose. I feel lonely and abandoned and... Shoot, I never got to ask Zelda how my boss takes his coffee.

I rise to my feet and head for the woman she was speaking with. She's an older woman, with her silvery gray hair pulled back. She watches me approach with a wary look.

"I'm June Donnelly." I extend my hand.

She doesn't shake it. "Double espresso, no milk or sugar."

"Excuse me?"

"His coffee." She jerks her chin in the direction of the kitchen. "Better not keep him waiting."

OMG, seriously? Doesn't anyone here know how to be polite? Before I can stop myself, I burst out, "You know, I'm not surprised so many of the other assistants quit within the hour."

"Oh?" Her eyebrows knit.

"Maybe it's not just because of the difficult boss." I pause for a moment. "Maybe it has something to do with the rudeness of the co-workers, too."

I spin around and turn toward the kitchen when she calls out, "I don't mean to be ill-mannered, but I've learned it's best not to invest in relationships with any of Knox's assistants, since they never last."

I turn back toward her. "And by being so unwelcoming, you're ensuring no one will want to stay because they'll feel there's no support system."

She flushes, then has the grace to look embarrassed. "You're right." She rises to her feet and walks over to me. She holds out her hand. "I'm sorry, I was standoffish. I'm Mary, Quentin Davenport's assistant. I'm also the Office Administrator."

I hesitate, then decide not to be churlish about it. I need all the friends I can get if I want to survive this job. I shake her hand. "Nice to meet you."

"You, too, June," she says in a polite, if reserved, voice. At least, that wary look about her eyes is gone.

We size each other up for a few seconds, and I know that she's trying to figure out how long I'm going to be able to stay the course. "I don't give up easily, you know."

I didn't survive being shuttled between foster families before being adopted by tapping out. After months of searching, I didn't land this job which will help me pay off my debts faster than I anticipated, only to quit because my boss has a bad attitude, or because my work-colleagues are disagreeable .

Mary must see the resolution on my face, for her expression softens and she nods. "I'm beginning to see that. I'd say good luck but?—"

"But?"

"I have a feeling you make your own luck, June Donnelly." She half smiles.

My throat closes up. After the shitty morning I've had, to hear her words of praise makes me want to burst into tears, but I swallow them down. "Thanks." I clear my throat.

She pats my shoulder, then nods in the direction of my boss' office. "Best not keep him waiting, dear."

She returns to her desk.

I reach the kitchen and find a complicated coffee machine. Thanks to my stint as a barista, I have a double espresso ready in a matter of minutes. I retrace my steps to The Beast's office, taking care not to spill the coffee. When I pass Mary's desk on the way back, she's not there.

I head for my boss' office, then draw in a breath. This is it. Showtime. I tuck stray strands of hair behind my ear, square my shoulders, then knock on the door.

I wait for a few seconds, but there's no answer. I knock again. The seconds stretch further. Should I wait? The coffee will get cold, and he specified it must be hot. Fine, fine. I need to get this over with. Need to find my mettle. Need to chin up and face the music. He's only a man. I square my shoulders, push open the door and step in, only to find the place is empty. Hmm.

The room is huge, like three times the size of my apartment, and has floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside, it's raining. It's only eleven a.m., but thanks to the low hanging clouds, it's gray outside. No surprise in London.

I take a step forward and that's when the scent of rich tobacco and leather, and something deeper—sandalwood? —pours over me. I take a deep breath, and little fires seem to light up my spine. It's a very masculine smell. Something very male. Something primal which resonates with a need deep inside me. I squeeze my fingers around the handle of the cup I'm holding and glance about the space.

There's a massive desk set in front of a glass wall, with a view of the Thames. We're on the fortieth story of the Davenport tower, and I can see on the opposite bank the dome of St. Paul's, with the Millennium bridge suspended over the river the foreground.

On the wall opposite the windows, there's a bank of six televisions. Each one shows a different news channel. Facing it is a couch and armchairs with a coffee table in front. To my right is another sitting area, this one facing an unlit fireplace.

The lights are dimmed, so the space crawls with shadows. A gust of wind rattles against one of the walls, I shiver. The hair on the back of my neck rises, and I realize I'm not alone. My attention is drawn to the other side of the room.

There, in the corner, in the space between two windows, shrouded in shadows, is the unmistakable outline of a man. I gasp and strain through the dim light, trying to make out his features.

His face is in darkness, but there's just enough light to pick out the shape of his shoulders, which are broad enough to stretch his suit. The sleeves are tight around his biceps, and his jacket pulls across his chest. He's standing with one hand thrust in his pocket, the other at his side. His pants and his jacket are black enough to meld with his surroundings, and he's wearing a shirt, which is also black. I can tell that his black tie is made of silk because of the light that reflects off it. Then he takes a step forward.

The light from the window falls over his eyes, blue like the waves that crest a stormy sea. He stares, unblinking, and I feel like I'm at the start of a rollercoaster, at the very top of that first long drop when my stomach clenches in anticipation, my guts churn, and every part of me dreads what's to come—but also looks forward to hurtling down to the inevitable bottom. I swallow, and the sound of my pulse fills my ears.

He takes another step in my direction. The ceiling light illuminates his features, and I forget to breathe.

High cheekbones, a hooked patrician nose, a thin, firm upper lip that promises he's not someone to be messed with. And that puffy lower lip which is ridiculously sensuous. The square jaw, which is so perfect it makes me want to weep. But it's the scar that stretches from the tip of the left side of his lips to the edge of his eye which focuses my attention. It slashes across his cheek like someone dragged a blade in exactly the perfect symmetry to bisect the expanse.

The shriveled, uneven surface of the scar hints at the likelihood that it was stitched by someone who wasn't a doctor… Suddenly, I know he did it himself. That he bore the pain without a single groan. That he didn't even have the benefit of a mirror and had to hold the edges of the torn skin together as he made do with whatever he could find to sew himself up. And I know it must have hurt so much, but that he didn't complain.

Whatever happened to cause that wound must have been life-threatening. It's probably a miracle he's standing here. The thought of this big, virile male almost dying causes the blood to drain from my face.

He's not any man. He's a larger-than-life, lethal, predatory male, who's almost otherworldly in how he's able to hold himself preternaturally still. Every muscle seems to be carved out of stone. The tension that rolls off of him weighs the air and sparks it with electricity. My nerve-endings tingle. I try to take a breath, and my lungs burn. It's as if he's sucked all the oxygen out of the room and replaced it with an explosive mixture that's sure to corrode me from the inside out.

I don't know why that HR lady thinks his face is hideous, or why his previous assistants couldn't stand the sight of him, for this man is not repellant or scary to look at. He is freakin' gorgeous.

Sure, his face is scarred, but that only adds to his appeal. It brings to mind images of pirates who went to sea and came back having vanquished their enemies. It makes me want to find out how he was wounded. It makes me want to kiss that puckered skin on his face and soothe any lingering memories he may have from being hurt. It makes me want to lick up that furrow on his cheek and taste him, and— Heat flushes my skin. My toes curl.

Whoa, I need to stop that train of thought. This is my boss. I'm his employee. I have no business thinking of him in such an inappropriate manner.

Whatever he sees on my features causes his face to close even more. A nerve ticks at his jaw. "Place the coffee on the desk," he rumbles.

That same rich, dark voice I heard over the phone rolls over me like a tsunami of decadence. My mouth dries. My stomach trembles. All the moisture in my body seems to have arrowed toward that secret part of me deep inside my core. I swallow, continuing to stare in his direction.

"Do it," he snaps.

Instantly, I'm moving. My feet don't seem to touch the ground. I reach his desk, round it, and place the cup of coffee in the space in front of his chair. I straighten and glance in his direction. "I'm your new assistant June Don?—"

"Get out."

"What?" My jaw drops.

"Leave, and don't return unless I ask you to."

My heart slams into my ribcage. For some ridiculous reason, I want to cry. I don't know this guy, haven't done anything to elicit this kind of reaction from him, so why is he being so rude? I open my mouth, but he throws up his hand. "If you don't like the job, you can leave that, too."

There's something in his voice that implies he expects me to do just that. In fact, I have a sneaking suspicion that's why he's being so rude. What a jerk. Not that I plan on quitting. Not when I just got this job. And the money? I need that money. So no, I'm not going anywhere.

"What time?" I sense his surprise, since I can't make out his features. "Lunch. What time do you want it?" I prompt.

"One p.m. and?—"

"I won't be late." I ignore the scowl on his face, then spin around and walk back the way I came. When I reach the door, I grab the handle, twist it, and push the door open, then pause.

If I'm going to survive this role, then I need to let him know I'm not a pushover. I need him to understand that I'm not scared of his bluster or his domineering manner. I square my shoulders, then half turn and fix my gaze on the shadow that is him.

"Oh, by the way," I say in a tone that I hope conveys confidence. "I don't scare easily, Knox Davenport. Question is, do you?"