“See, but you could also form an alliance, share Carma shares with them—”

“No one gets a piece of Carma.”

“Okay then, supposing you trade them just a bit of your business savvy in exchange for controlling interest.”

“That’s what we do. They can stay in their own company, I’m just steering them off the rocky path.”

“Not always, sometimes you make them disappear.”

“Sometimes, yes.”

My face crumples at that.

“I’m not an asshole, Olivia. I’m just the only one who says what everyone else is thinking—who has the balls to do what everyone else is afraid of doing.”

I nod, then stare out the window and process it all. “You’re like this with women too, aren’t you?” I suddenly ask.

I meet his gaze.

He clenches his jaw and stares out at the road as we approach downtown. “Maybe I am like that.”

“Do you bring them home?”

“No. Hotels, my Miami house, the apartment in Cabo, or my London flat.”

“Just to avoid bringing them home?”

“I compartmentalize. I’m a genius mastermind in that regard. Though sometimes it’s hard to follow my own rules.”

“Because they’re silly,” I tease. “Also I think you don’t bring them there because you can be terribly selfish and extremely territorial over your space.”

He smirks, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Yeah. It has to be that.”

“Yet, I’m not going anywhere. At least for a little while. I mean, professionally,” I hastily amend.

He eyes my lips for a second, then looks into my eyes. “Yeah.” Then he glances away, smiling secretively to himself.

I inhale and wonder if I have the courage to tell him that I like him, so much that I couldn’t admit I was jealous just now, that I don’t know how frustrating it will be to see him kiss and take all these women, one after the other, everyone except untouchable me.

He glances my way, and laughs as if I press his buttons a little too much for his liking. Then he shakes his head—as if denying the chemistry between us, because that’s how it needs to be for me—and he pulls out the thick volumes on VIKTOR from the backseat of his car.

I start reading, my brain working like a sponge as I listen to the passionate way he explains the good aspects about the company, the bad, and what he’ll do with it when he gets his hands on it.

I’d seen him as someone who broke things apart, but at the end of the evening, I can’t help but realize he’s a fixer. He likes fixing things that aren’t working as much as I like learning this new tidbit about him.

I follow Mr. Lincoln into the conference room on Wednesday, where the twelve board members of Carma Inc. are seated at a long, modern mahogany table.

Callan turns to look directly at me.

He casts an approving glance at the red bra strap peeking from under my shirt.

We exchange a subtle look of amusement.

What can I say? I haven’t had time to do laundry this week.

For a long moment I look back at him, studying his face without hurry, feature by feature. His eyes drink me up too.

I sit behind Mr. Lincoln as they begin to discuss Alcore—and my heart skips when I’m asked about the company details, which I know by memory now.

It’s a brief meeting, really. Mr. Lincoln remains speaking with a few of the board members when Callan walks outside and into a room next door, motioning me inside.

I follow him, shutting the door behind me.

As he watches me walk forward, his eyes snag on the red bra strap peeking out from under my silk button shirt.

“Not in the dress code, I know.” My eyebrows lift daringly. “Are you going to take it off too?” I dare, referring to my bandana.

“Sit over here.”

He pats the desk to his right.

Heart pounding, I swallow a lump of desire in my throat.

Taunting a jaguar is probably not a good idea, is it?

I sit on the desk.

“Do you want me to take it off?” he asks, sliding a hand to my hip.

“Yes.” I swallow.

He brushes my hair back. Clutches my face. Leans toward my ear. “You taunt me.” He brushes his lips to mine—the merest brush, a punishment maybe, but a shock runs through me and I lean forward and part my lips.

He tugs my shirt free from the waistband of my skirt. He eases his hand underneath, his fingers warm as he unhooks the front clasp of my bra.

“Shrug it off,” he whispers, rough, in my ear.

“Don’t,” I breathlessly begin, slipping my arms under my shirt to do as he asks, “taunt me.” I smile, stand up, and drop my bra in the middle of the floor and sashay out of the room to absolute, electric silence.

I’m grinning when I’m back in my office chair, but when my braless breasts bounce beneath the fabric of my shirt, I groan.

God, I’m such a slut for him. Why did I do that? And why did he not take me somewhere private so he could take off the rest? He’s the most fucking difficult-to-seduce womanizer I’ve ever met in my life. He doesn’t take advantage of my one crazy moment of weakness.

Fuck

My

Luck!

We’re in his home that night, beneath the warm yellow lights, where he can skim some of the reports he asked Mr. Lincoln for after the board meeting.

“So the Alcore takeover is happening,” I say.

Neither of us is talking about the bra incident.

Thank goodness.

I can’t believe I did that.

A little crazy moment of flirting that won’t happen again (I’ve already stashed all my red things away to be sure of it).