Fingertips slipped under her skirt, skimming her thighs.
Nichole gasped and stumbled backwards, the book slipping through her fingers as she fell off the stepstool.
Strong hands gripped her hips, righting her.
Taking a deep breath, she opened her mouth to scream, and …
Stopped.
That scent. A blend of sandalwood, cloves, leather and … man. Only one man.
Her scream became a whimper.
“Shhhhh …” Derek whispered against her neck.
A shiver rippled through her.
Thumbs hooked into the waistband of her Nina Ricci thong, sliding it down over her hips.
“What-”
“You know ‘what.’”
Hands gripped her hips, pulling her back. Rigid muscle nuzzled her ass.
She moaned.
“Shhhhh …”
She was trying to remain quiet. But after enduring months of teasing, months of taunting …
“Oh, Derek … please.” Nichole groaned and reached behind her. Frantic, needing, wanting … NOW.
Here. In the library. In-
At the sound of a throat being cleared, Nichole Simms jumped and slammed her hand over her notebook.
“Good afternoon, Nichole.”
Her startled gaze honed in on the perfectly shaped lips, nestled between a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee.
If I nibbled his lips, would it tickle or scratch? If-
She yanked her gaze to his eyes. “M-Mr. Mitchell. Y-your appointment’s not until 1:00.”
“I know.” Emerald eyes ensnared hers, stealing her breath, jolting her heart.
He stared.
She blushed.
“I’ll … see if Richard can see meet with you now.” The mesh penholder toppled onto her desk as she reached for the phone.
Fingers pressed down on hers, the touch light, the sensation searing. “No.”
No …?
Nichole raised her eyes, staring at the collar of his shirt, afraid to look higher, for fear that he would read her illicit thoughts in her expression. Not that staring at his collar helped, for the crisp whiteness set off his tawny skin while the red silk tie complimented the navy suit. From the corner of her eyes, the broad shoulders, accentuated by the tailored drape of his jacket, beckoned her to inspect, to slip her hands under the silk and touch and stroke and-
She returned her gaze to his.
His eyes glittered.
Her knuckles tingled.
Though he stood perfectly still, power seemed to roll off of him in waves, mingling with his body heat, concocting a potion impossible to resist.
Okay. She could handle this, maintain the professional façade she always wore like a shield when Derek Mitchell was in the office. He’d just caught her by surprise, that’s all.
Uh-huh. Lurid fantasies in which he’d starred had left her feeling more than surprise. Try hot, bothered, wet-
Her face heated. Sliding her hand from under his, Nichole took a deep breath, imagining the air entering her lungs, entering her bloodstream, and dispersing calmness throughout her body. Erasing the feel of fingers caressing her skin. Sweeping away even more sinful acts not yet written… but imagined. Restoring order, normalcy … control.
Breathe in … Hold it … Breathe out … One more time … That was it. She felt better.
Nichole replaced the pens, careful not to look at him.
“Actually,” he said, “I wanted to see you first.”
And knocked them over again.
“I see.” No, she didn’t see. She had no idea what he meant. Oh, she knew what she wished he meant - that he wanted to see the real her; the passionate, seductress hiding behind the no-nonsense woman who managed Talentz’s established and wannabe models and actors. Of course, there was no chance of that happening. A sexy, wealthy man like Derek Mitchell didn’t really see a woman like her - a woman lacking the practiced persona of a sex kitten. Which is why he’d been perfect for the lead role in her fantasies. Because there, her understated, girl-next-door prettiness made him wild with need. He craved her. Devoured her.
Nichole’s eyes darted to her forgotten notebook. She snapped it closed and stacked a pile of papers, casually placing them on top of the notebook. Pasting a polite smile on her face, she struggled to keep her voice even. “How can I help you, Mr. Mitchell?”
“Derek.”
Oh, Derek … please.
Her smile felt like a grimace.
His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
“I need some information on Jeremy Smith.”
“Oh.” Nichole ignored the pang of disappointment at the mention of Talentz’s top male model. “I don’t know what I can tell you about him, but please have a seat.”
He remained standing.
She waited, aware of an undercurrent of tension she’d never before felt coming from him. Or maybe it was just that she’d never before had his full attention on her for more than a few seconds at a time. Or maybe the tension belonged to her, a result of the lingering visions of him, sans the navy Armani suit and stark white shirt, standing over her, waiting not for information about a model in their database, but rather, waiting for her to inch forward, this time slipping her hands under his briefs, pulling downward, uncovering-
“Did you send him to the audition for the Jag City car dealership on the 12th?”
She blinked. Did I send who to Jag City?
“Or did Jeremy call and request to be sent?”
Oh right. Jeremy Smith. “I sent him.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I called all the models matching your requirements for that job.”
“Do you know Jeremy?”
“No. He’s only been in our database for a few months, and that was the first job I’d sent him out on.” She shook the rest of her haze off, all business now. She took pride in those she offered representation by Talentz, as well as those she sent out on jobs. The high percentage of talent that the agency placed was a result of her selections. “What is this about, Mr. Mitchell? Did Jeremy do something wrong?”
“I don’t know.” His tone implied that she should know, his eyes once again probing the corners of her mind, seeming to skip the images of him shirtless and her hands rubbing over his chest. Instead, he was looking for … something else. He was waiting for information, not her caresses.
“If Jeremy was not to your satisfaction, I’d like to know about it. I want you …” NOW. Here. In the library. Heat returned to her face. “… to be happy with Talentz. We value your business.”
“I’d like another copy of his resume,” he said, ignoring the inquiry.
“Certainly.”
“And since you value my business …”
That smile again. The quirk of lips that seduced, despite the fact that it didn’t touch his eyes. Or maybe the fact that his eyes remained untouched made it seductive. His secrets remained hidden, the meaning elusive. Nichole could relate. She had her own secrets which, though obviously much different and of no interest to him, she had every desire to keep hidden.
“I’d like talent for an event on Friday.”
Relieved by the excuse to look away, she turned her attention to her computer screen, forcing her mind back to his request. A couple of clicks and Jeremy’s resume was printing. Okay. The other request … an event on Friday … Her mind scrambled to focus, grasping for the occasion that flittered around the edges of her memory. There it was. The one she’d read about in the San Francisco Chronicle. “For the grand opening of The Decadent Chaise?”
“Yes.”
She smiled and relaxed slightly, pleased by the accuracy of her guess, and turned to him. “What-”
His gaze dipped to her lips.
Her smile slipped.
“How did you know that was the event?”
His gaze was still on her lips.
Her breathing quickened.
“I-I make it a point to keep track of …” everything you do “… all our clients, Mr. Mitchell.” That was true. Notices of upcoming events were passed to Richard to convert into business. Other information - like the photos of the Derek-designed chaises in San Francisco Magazine - she saved for herself. Decorative fodder for her notebook, around which she wove images of flesh starving for touch, lips dying for a kiss-
“Really?”
She nodded, afraid to speak.
He pulled up a chair in front of her desk and sat. Legs parted, elbows resting on the armrests, index fingers steepled and touching, resting against his mouth.
His lips pursed slightly.
Nichole’s lips parted.
“So what else do you know about me, Nichole?”
His tone was light but his gaze resembled that of a hawk’s, right before it swooped down for a kill. Or an inquisitor’s seconds before the torture began. Somehow, she didn’t think he was asking about tabloid gossip, like whether or not sexy supermodel Melissa Moore was soon to be the first Mrs. Mitchell, or if he was really going to give Playgirl an exclusive.
Her breath caught at the vision of Derek Mitchell naked, splayed on one of his own Decadent Chaise creations, smooth, nutmeg-tone skin glistening against the plush, burgundy velour, a muscular leg draped over the side-
Just like she’d penned in her notebook, right under the photo of her favorite chaise lounge.
Nichole turned and placed her hands on the desk, interlacing her fingers. She relaxed her grip. “Mr. Mitchell,” she stopped and cleared her throat, attempting to rid her voice of that embarrassing breathiness. “What is it that you really want to know?”