Chapter 13

It was love at first sight, and as soon as I stepped into the penthouse that was to be my home for the next couple of weeks, led on in by Elijah, a tension I had not even been aware of unfurled in me and I relaxed, taking in everything with the wide-eyed disbelief of a toddler.

The apartment boasted several floor-to-ceiling windows (an architectural quirk that I had now started to associate with Elijah), custom-designed furnishings in dark wood and a European-style wet bar. In the living room, a 60-inch LCD flat screen played a rerun of some French soap, and even though it was on mute I could make out what was being said to a reasonable degree because the subtitles had been turned on.

Everywhere I looked something waited for me to marvel at, and even though it hadn’t even been up to five minutes since I arrived, already I’d had to hold myself back from running my hands over everything as I choked down on little noises of awe.

“I hope you’ll find this sufficient?” Elijah asked, snapping me out of my stupor, and I came to a stop as I forced my chin down into a nod.

“Yeah.” Translation: I couldn’t afford a night in this place if I tried. “It’ll have to do.”

My boss cocked his head to a side and considered me. For a moment it appeared as if he had something on his mind and was about to say it, but then he shrugged and looked away.

“There’s an indoor pool out on the patio,” he began, pointing to one of the windows before adding: “I like to swim.”

A break.

“I don’t know how to swim,” I confessed into the awkward moment that followed after his revelation, and once more his eyes narrowed, like he thought I was making fun of him, but something in my visage must’ve convinced him of my earnestness.

“I’ll teach you, if you like,” he volunteered, and because I couldn’t for the life of me tell if he was actually being serious I thanked him, giving a halfhearted excuse that I would take up his offer as soon as we had a bit of free time on our hands.

Elijah flashed me a smile full of boyish charm.

“Then I’ll look forward to it.”

The exchange had a sort of surreal quality to it, and because I was still slightly out of it I felt like I was in a dream as he led me on a mini tour through the suite which stopped only when we arrived in front of my bedroom.

The door stood ajar, and when I peered into it to find that the luggage I’d had sent ahead last week neatly arranged I let out an inaudible sigh of relief before turning to face Elijah, who stood leaning against a door directly adjacent mine.

“This is my room,” he said, pointing a thumb at the door, as he raised a questioning brow like he was telling me to challenge his right to live within close proximity of me.

If I’d arrived first then maybe I would’ve fallen for the bait, but as things stood he’d been here for little over two weeks preparing for the business conference and I was an interloper.

I hadn’t believed him when he called it our penthouse suite, but then again that was on me, because Elijah never said anything he did not mean, and as things were, for once I couldn’t muster up the energy to actually care about the optics of our situation and how it would be perceived by outsiders.

Instead, I rubbed my eyes, stifling a yawn as exhaustion crept over the sides of my vision.

The imperious king-sized pillow top mattress that I’d caught a glimpse of in my room sang a sirens call, and only by sheer force of will did I manage to remain standing even as my shoulder drooped dangerously.

“Thank you for the tour, Mr. Wilder,” I said unthinkingly, repressing another yawn.

It was funny, how in a matter of mere minutes I’d gone from energetic to practically dozing on my feet.

But there was time, as the conference did not start until the following day. A quick glance at my watch let me know that it one twenty-three p.m., and even though New York ran six hours behind Paris I was dead tired as a result of the meds I’d taken before my plane took off.

A distant part of my brain registered that my stomach was growling, but right then the thought of fighting through my fatigue to eat sounded like pure torture and I discarded it.

I looked up to find that Elijah was watching me. He had on an expression that veered between troubled and concerned and as our gazes locked—his alert and watchful, mine feeling like they weighed a ton of bricks—I was able to tell the exact moment his concern won out.

“You’ve had a long trip,” he suggested, “rest.”

I made a weak sound of protest that wouldn’t have fooled even a three-year-old, much less the part-time owner and supervisor of a multibillion-dollar holdings company.

“Aurora,” Elijah repeated again, voice gentle with an edge of steel. “Go to bed.”

I got a sense that it was a tone he adopted each time he did not want to broker arguments, but the sudden burnout had stolen away some of my inhibitions, and where usually I would’ve gone straight on ahead and done as he said this time I arched a quizzical brow at him—no small feat when my eyelids felt like they alone weighed a ton of bricks.

“Is that an order or a request, Mr. Wilder?” I asked, voice coming out in an unintended purr which caused a thunderstorm of emotions to break through his practiced façade, so that for just one moment I feared that he was angry until my tired mind registered what I was looking at.

Intrigue.

In a voice so soft I wouldn’t have picked up on it if we hadn’t been just paces away from each other, he answered.

“It’s whatever you want it to be, Aurora.”

He muttered a phrase in French that I, with my less than stellar knowledge of the language, could barely hope to follow—but the heat in his eyes lit an ember inside my stomach, and I felt a sudden rush or pure, euphoric panic.

“What did you say?” I asked, and for a moment it seemed like he would tell me, but he peeled himself off the door which he’d had his back against and started to stalk away from me, cool as a tomcat.

“That’s not fair,” I called to his back, but he only shrugged, calling back.

“Go to bed, Miss Martin.”

“Not until you tell me what you said,” I shot back, resisting the sudden childish urge I had to stomp my feet.

His pace slowed for a split-second but then it picked back up, this time accompanied by an obnoxiously cheerful tune as he whistled.

I stepped into my room and shut the door behind me, rubbing at my temples where a dull throb had started to gain momentum. What was it about Elijah Wilder that always set me on edge, pulled reactions out that I hadn’t thought myself capable of?

The thought occupied my mind as I slung the carrier bag off my shoulder, taking a moment to massage at the spot on my shoulders where the single strap had pressed down on, before padding over to the bed which I gratefully lowered myself into.

It didn’t matter in the end, I decided. Whatever it was would need to be kept at bay for both our sakes, and the best way to do that would be by ensuring that the lines between us remained strictly defined and uncrossable.

I had enough on my plate without having to deal with the added shame and guilt that came with the territory of home wrecker—and something told me that for all of her sweet mildness, Isla Davenport was no wallflower.

One did not get raised alongside a brother like Tristan without having some backbone, and I had absolutely no interest in testing out my theory. The past hour had been one big slipup, and by the time I woke up I would be better equipped to handle the situation.

As I lowered myself into the bed, I counted off the list of ways in which a future me would set things right: No more heated glances or borderline flirtatious comments. No more Google searches, or sex flashbacks, or—

I was out like a light before my head even touched the pillow.