CHAPTER 5

As if reading my mind, Chloe tried to pep me up. “Come on, clothes don’t make the girl. Hey, at least you’re not naked.”

I had tried to twist my hair this way and that, and no, my appearance hardly improved. I was passionately hating on the entire situation while riding in the back of the cab, sitting sideways because I suspected that, when Chloe washed her hands after me, she got some paint on my back. Just seconds ago I felt it sticking to the cab vinyl, and now I was hating on this situation so bad, my stomach hurt. I asked the driver to drop the passenger mirror, and I stared at my face.

“Ohmigod,” I said.

And there I was. My long blonde hair twisted into messy pigtails, a slash of paint on the side of my neck, stark like blood against my pale skin. “Ohmigod,” I moaned.

This was the woman the renowned James Godfrey is going to see?

And, if I thought in the back of the cab that I really loathed this situation, I had no idea how much more I would hate it when I got to the Tech10 corporate building.

The building itself loomed with its fancy mirrored windows piled up almost as high as the Sears—supposedly-called-Willis-now-but-screw-that-name—Tower. Inside the lobby, from one end to the other, marble and granite floors spread out beneath my feet. Steel structures held glass staircases leading to a second lobby floor, while see-through elevators zoomed up and down.

Tech10 was about as edgy as a nightclub but as quiet as a museum. I felt like a balloon delivery girl who forgot the balloons as I walked past the revolving doors and deeper toward reception. Oh fuck me, this was so not optimal right now. Everybody in the lobby was looking at me.

I can’t do this, I can’t do this, I can’t do this.

Vale! Focus. YES. You can.

I thrusted my chin out and proudly walked up to the receptionist. “Vicki Vale for James Godfrey.”

She eyed me quietly. Inspected my ID card. Frowned a little.

At five foot seven, I was not short by any means. But I felt smaller and smaller. I  was shrinking, right there, as I waited. Humiliated quietly.

“Top floor,” she said, eyeing me down to my Converse sneakers.

Fuck. Me.

I headed to the elevator with as much pride as I could muster.

The elevator zipped up to the top floor, dropping my companions—all of them in sharp black-and-white exec suits—along the way until it was just me. And a knot of nerves tightening more and more. I bet Cynthia wouldn’t be caught dead wearing this. Not even if she were paid to do it.

But Cynthia wasn’t there, Vicki. You are.

The elevator dinged, and I stepped out.

There were four desks, two to the right, two to the left, and huge frosted-glass doors leading to . . . his lair. I knew it was his because of how the frosted doors gave the impression of a glass fortress that was both bold and strangely understated. It signaled accessibility while being completely out of reach from the world.

A woman came around a desk and gestured for me to take a seat in a section to the left.

Thanking her under my breath, I perched on the edge of a chair for a few minutes, watching all four of his assistants—all of them sharp and attractive in different ways—took continual calls. They worked in absolute perfect synchronicity.

An elevator opened and a glimpse of a tall, striking man hit me with a jolt of pure feminine awareness as he stepped out with a trail of businessmen behind him. Shoulders a mile wide, jet-black hair, crisp designer suit, snowy white shirt, and a stride to eat up the universe. He was taking the folder that one of the other men extended and, after issuing some sort of command that sent his followers dispersing out with bullet speed, he charged forward. He passed me with the simmering force of a hurricane and disappeared into the glass cave, leaving me dizzy and frantically absorbing my last sight of the dark hair, broad back, and the hottest male ass I’ve ever seen walking Seattle.

For a second I felt like the world moved faster, that somehow ten seconds were all crammed into the space of one—the one where this man went past me. Like a lightning bolt.

One of the assistants leaped to her feet and went into the glass office where he vanished, while the other three stared at the door as if they wished the lightning bolt had hit a little bit closer to home.

Then it hit me.

That the storm was James Godfrey Junior.

Yes, the hurricane was James.

I felt a prick of dread.

I glanced at my sneakers. And yep. They were still sneakers. Urgh.

I noticed the assistant left the door slightly ajar, and I couldn’t help but lean forward, straining to hear her whispers.

“Your twelve o’clock is here. You have ten minutes.”

I couldn’t hear the reply through the nervous pounding of my heart.

“Oh, and Mr. James, this . . . reporter . . . she’s dressed a little bit unconventionally.”

God, I still couldn’t hear.

“From Edge Magazines, a low-circulation magazine. Dean thought it important we use whatever outlets we could to push the new F******k.”

My skin pebbled when I heard a low, excruciatingly deep male voice murmur something unintelligible.

“Vicki Vale,” the assistant answered.

I felt shivers when the indiscernible but deep sound of his voice reached me again. The shivers raced from the top of my spine down to my tailbone.

I had never shivered like this before, not even when I’d been freezing my ass outside. Is this from nerves?

“Yes, Mr. James . . .” the assistant finally said.

She came out and couldn’t quite manage to conceal the fact that she was flustered. Shit, and I was the one going in next. Looking like I was just tossed into a blender with a can of paint and I was the result of that fun little expedition.

She called me over to the door. “Mr. James is truly pressed for time today. Enjoy your ten minutes,” she said as she pushed it open.

I tried to reply, but I was so nervous only a little croak of a “thank you” came out as I stepped inside. Stock tickers scrolled on one wall on dozens of different screens. There were no live plants, nothing but technology and natural stone floors, and a lot of space as if this man needed it.

The windows had an open view of the city of Seattle, but I couldn’t absorb it for long because I saw him—quiet, storm-like intensity in Armani—walk towards me in that hurricane force that was almost otherworldly.

Wow. Wow on every part of him. His face, his presence, his shoulders, his eyes. His eyes were glowing, alive—blue and deep, like moving rivers, but there was no missing the little shards of ice glinting inside, almost screaming for me to warm them.