5:15 PM | Hartwell Group HQ
Julian Lorimer leaned against Mia's desk, crisp white Armani suit hugging his surgeon's frame like gift wrap on a Stradivarius. "Admit it, Mia," he purred, tracing the edge of her keyboard. "You modeled for Renaissance painters in a past life."
Mia didn't glance up from her monitor. "Flattery won't get you faster coffee, Dr. Lorimer. Ask Clara—she's the one who breaks cameras walking into rooms."
At the adjacent desk, Clara kicked Mia's ankle under the table. Traitor.
Julian's laugh echoed in the chrome-and-glass space. "Touché. But Ms. Morgan's beauty is a lethal weapon." He winked at Clara. "Whereas yours, Mia darling, is... approachable."
The intercom buzzed like an angry hornet.
Sebastian's voice: "Clara. My office. Now."
Julian whistled low. "Ding ding ding! Boss man's summoning his favorite chew toy."
Clara stood, smoothing her pencil skirt. "Five bucks says he wants me to fax his soul to Satan again."
"Ten says he makes you button his cufflinks." Mia muttered without looking up.
Inside the Lion's Den
Sebastian stood silhouetted against floor-to-ceiling windows, twilight painting his white Thomas Pink shirt in molten gold. The fabric clung to shoulder blades sharp enough to cut glass, tapering to a waist Clara knew hid abs you could grate cheese on.
Sartorial perfection, she thought bitterly. Tailored camouflage for predators.
"Jacket." He didn't turn, gesturing to a Brioni blazer hanging like a shadow on a valet stand.
Clara lifted the charcoal wool—$8,000 worth of fabric heavier than her student loans. "Should I call a physiotherapist? Or did your arms forget how sleeves work?"
Sebastian finally pivoted. Ice-blue eyes raked over her. "Wit before coffee, Morgan? Dangerous."
She slid the jacket over his shoulders, fingers deliberately avoiding contact. Yet when she smoothed the lapels, her knuckles brushed warm cotton. His breath hitched—a nearly imperceptible fracture in the glacier.
"All done," she chirped, stepping back.
His hand shot out, imprisoning her wrist. "When do I get the real Clara?"
"Depends," she countered. "When do you stop playing corporate Lucifer?"
The Unbuttoning
His thumb traced her pulse point. "You tremble."
"A natural response to imminent dismemberment."
He laughed—a dark velvet sound that raised goosebumps on her arms. "What if I said I wanted you at the gala tonight?"
"Then I'd suggest a neurological exam." She pushed against his chest. "Your usual arm candy models are on speed dial."
The air crackled. One heartbeat. Two.
Snick.
Clara froze as her bra clasp surrendered. Silk whispered down her torso.
"Sebastian Hartwell!" She clutched her blouse. "Have you no shame?"
He dangled the lace scrap from his finger. "Shame's for philanthropists and boy scouts." His gaze dropped to her heaving chest. "Decision?"
"Fine! I'll go!"
"Wise choice." He spun her around, deftly rehooking the garment. But his palms lingered on her bare back, branding her skin.
"Six o'clock." His breath scorched her ear. "Wear the box on your desk."