Читать книгу An Heir For The World's Richest Man - Maya Blake - Страница 11

SAFFRON EVERHART STARED at the obscenely large, hideously expensive bouquet of flowers on her desk and her heart dropped into her stomach. This was going to be much more difficult than she’d ever imagined.

Over the years she’d learned to decode the levels of hell associated with the gifts that arrived on her desk on any given day.

Flowers meant prepare not to sleep for the next seventy-two hours. Flowers and a gift certificate to the most exclusive spa in Switzerland meant pack a bag and have someone water your plants because you won’t be going home for a week. The last circle of hell was reserved for flowers and jewellery. These days the sight of precious gems made her shudder. She had three diamond bracelets, a Harry Winston pink diamond necklace with matching earrings, and a diamond and sapphire brooch she absolutely hated the sight of simply because of the blood, sweat and tears they’d wrung from her.

So, in a way, the flowers, as breathtaking and stomach-hollowing as they were, were a blessing simply because they had no accompaniment.

Still...

She set the Waterford crystal vase down at the farthest corner of her desk, curbing the urge to caress the soft petals of the hothouse lilies she knew had come from a florist who catered to a handful of exclusive A-list clientele. Just as she resisted the urge to lean forward and inhale their bewitching midnight-breeze scent, or be bowled over by the knowledge that each of the thirty long stems in the gigantic vase cost over a thousand pounds.

She rose from her desk, ignoring the sensational view of London spread out in rare sun-splashed splendour below her, and pivoted to face the double doors of the office adjoining hers.

The breath she took was shaky and weak, her clammy hands and churning gut a world removed from the image she strove to achieve. The image her straight spine and impeccable clothes projected.

More and more, that set of doors had seemed like the summit of Everest, fraught with dangers that screamed at her to turn back. Except she couldn’t.

Not just yet.

But she’d delayed enough. Two whole months to be exact. It was time to take the final step.

Time to put that one night, that astoundingly risky dive into temptation that had set in motion events that made her heart dip each time she allowed herself to think of it, behind her.

Time to take back control of her life before it was too late.

Before she could compel her feet to move, a knock on the outer door stopped her. She turned, her stomach dropping to her toes at the sight of the smartly dressed courier heading purposefully towards her. Bicycle couriers and messengers weren’t allowed above the fifteenth floor. She was on the forty-ninth, one step from the highest floor in the building owned by the richest man in the world.

And the man who was heading her way reverently clutching a black velvet briefcase with the logo of the Queen’s jeweller proudly emblazoned on it was the furthest you could get from an ordinary courier.

‘No.’ The word was ripped from her throat, accompanied by several self-preserving steps backward, because, unlike the tennis bracelets and the other priceless gifts, this jeweller, this delivery signalled a whole new playing field. The kind that warned you to kiss your soul goodbye. That clammy hands and an inability to breathe properly would be the least of her worries if she gave into what was unfolding.

‘No, no, no.’

The courier paused halfway to her desk, his gaze befuddled. ‘Beg your pardon, miss? Do I have the wrong floor? I have a delivery for a Miss Everhart. Can you redirect me if this isn’t the right office? I’m afraid I’ll need a signature from her.’

She shook her head. ‘No. I mean, yes, you’re in the right office but, no, you don’t need a signature. You won’t need one because you won’t be making a delivery.’ She was aware her voice bordered on hysterical but she couldn’t help it. ‘The gift is being returned,’ she added for complete and undeniable emphasis.

His nervousness increased. ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible. There’s a non-returnable, non-refundable condition attached to the gift.’

‘That’s not true,’ she stated firmly. ‘I’m Miss Everhart, and I’ve dealt with your establishment before. I know for a fact that’s not the case.’

Sweat beaded on his forehead. Saffron almost felt sorry for him. ‘Well...yes, miss, in most cases it is. But not this time.’

‘Why not?’ she demanded, but deep down, she knew the answer.

‘Because the client specifically requested it.’

She resisted the urge to squeeze her eyes shut in panicked exasperation because...of course he did. The man could outthink the shrewdest opponent without breaking a sweat, could execute a dozen chess moves in a dozen games simultaneously while lounging behind his desk with his eyes shut. Why she’d think he wouldn’t use such a contingency on this occasion was almost laughable.

But Saffron wasn’t in the mood to laugh.

Her gaze dropped to the case, her stomach knotting tighter. If it’d held a nest of deadly scorpions, she would’ve been more welcoming.

The courier cleared his throat. ‘If I may say so, Miss Everhart, this is no ordinary piece. I believe permission was sought, and given, by Her Majesty for her necklace to be replicated. It’s one of the most exquisite pieces our establishment has had the privilege of creating.’ His tone bordered on reverence, his bewilderment at her reaction evident.

She didn’t doubt him. But the reason for its appearance in her life was blaring thunderously in her ears, blocking everything save for the fact that if she didn’t refuse this, if she delayed taking control of her life, she would be lost for ever. She’d already given four years of her life. Lived on the edge of her emotions. She couldn’t give another day. Another minute.

The man in front of her wasn’t the problem, though. The man seated on his throne-like chair behind the grey steel doors twenty feet from her was.

With brisk efficiency that disguised the churning mix of panic and dread inside her, she signed the delivery document and took possession of the package, knowing in her heart that she was making a huge mistake.

The door shut behind the courier. Saffron remained rooted in place, the box growing heavier with each second. When she could bear it no longer, she returned to her desk, sat down heavily and opened it.

The tiered diamond and ruby necklace was flawless.

Breathtakingly beautiful in a way no blatant bribe from a ruthless, coldly dismissive man had the right to be. At least it wasn’t a choker. That symbolism would’ve been a step too far.

She suppressed a hysterical laugh and stared, awed despite herself, at the most stunning piece of jewellery she’d ever seen in her life. Her fingers itched to caress the precious stones, to experience their sparkling beauty through touch as well as sight.

She snapped the box shut before temptation took hold, and, just like the flowers, set it out of arm’s reach.

She couldn’t...wouldn’t be swayed.

For far too long she’d given herself a pass, let the irresistible enticements of her position, specifically her proximity to the most charismatic man she’d ever encountered, lead her towards that one final act of insanity.

Well...never again.

Jaw gritted in a futile effort to stop the electricity that zapped through her every time she recalled that fateful night in Morocco, she read through the document she’d redrafted a dozen times and hit print.

The whirring sound of the printer spitting out the single sheet was both reassuring and terrifying. She was finally doing this, taking the ultimate step. Soon, she would be in complete control of her life. But first, there was the small problem of getting over this last monumental hurdle.

Saffron had no doubt that it would be a formidable battle.

She picked up the paper, folded it in two and rose.

With a cursory knock, she entered the lion’s den. Just in time to hear the exclusive phone reserved for super-VIP clients ring.

She froze in the doorway, her breathing nosediving as her gaze landed on the man reaching for the silver phone.

Joao Oliviera.

Her boss.

The richest man in the world with looks far outmatching that awe-inspiring title.

Despite the innumerable times she’d entered his domain, Saffron had never quite mastered the awe that possessed her in his presence. She’d just learned to disguise it to the point where she could appear almost dismissive of the endless layers of the powerful, magnetic aura he exuded, the breath-stealing vitality of his six-foot-four frame, his innate ability to strike the most influential leaders dumb with a few well-placed words.

And the feverish electricity of his touch.

No amount of training or self-denial could disguise the fact that Joao Oliviera, with his obscene wealth and good looks, was Midas, Croesus and Ares rolled into one sublime package.

Thick dark brown hair, longer than conventionally acceptable and tipped with the faintest gold, gleamed in the May sunlight slanting through the glass window behind him.

Chiselled cheekbones drew immediate, captivating attention to the olive vibrancy of his face, the uncompromising line of an upper lip neatly counterbalanced by the sinful, sensual curve of his lower lip, and the rugged outline of his faintly shadowed jaw that no amount of shaving could completely smooth.

Startling whisky-gold eyes framed by long, spiked eyelashes completed the magnificent picture.

Those eyes flicked up at her entrance, studied her for a piercing second before he beckoned her with long, elegant fingers. As was his habit, he’d shed his jacket shortly after his day began, leaving the pristine white shirt and Italian-made silk vest that emphasised his racehorse-lean physique on full display.

It was early, barely eight o’clock on a Monday morning, so he hadn’t got around to undoing his cuffs and folding back his shirtsleeves to reveal his brawny forearms. In the giant scheme of breathless hellishness, she took that as a blessing in disguise.

‘Lavinia, I’ve been waiting for your call,’ he drawled into the phone.

And just like that, Saffron was lashed by another whip of her most sinful craving. Over the years she’d battled to suppress her base reactions to almost everything about Joao—save for that one searing night in Morocco. His impressive mental dexterity, his jaw-dropping physique, his superhuman energy, the breathtaking ruthlessness wrapped around a core of unwavering integrity. But the one thing she’d never conquered was her reaction to the deep, intensely sexy, accented voice.

It shot arrows of flaming lust into her during her waking hours, and, with alarming frequency lately, invaded her dreams just as shamelessly. It’d reached the point where she almost dreaded walking into his office.

With any luck, she wouldn’t have to suffer it for much longer.

Saffron shut the door behind her and tuned into the conversation. Regardless of her primary reason for coming into Joao’s office, she had work to do. This morning—and, she suspected, countless more to come—that work involved Lavinia Archer.

At seventy-four, the head of the renowned Archer Group, an empire that comprised Archer Hotels, Archer Brewery, Archer Cruise Liners, Archer Airlines and several more offshoots, had been in control for over three decades.

When rumours had surfaced that Lavinia intended to sell her company to one buyer before her seventy-fifth birthday, Saffron had known it would be catnip to her boss. She’d been proved right when Joao had immediately set out to add the entire Archer empire, valued at thirty-one billion dollars, into his already staggering portfolio.

For the last three months, he’d woven an intricate web around Lavinia Archer, one involving a game of mental chess and charm that the older woman, despite courting several buyers, hadn’t been able to resist participating in.

‘I know you take pleasure in making me wait, Lavinia,’ Joao continued, the timbre of his voice smooth, dark and potent like the special blend of coffee his handpicked aficionados cultivated for him exclusively in his native Brazil. Every word oozed effortless charisma as his dark golden gaze tracked Saffron across his office. ‘I hope when the time comes, you’ll let me make the climax worth your while.’

Saffron stumbled, briskly caught herself on the edge of the sectional sofa that graced the office, and dragged her gaze from his coolly mocking one before she compounded her rare clumsiness by blushing.

Sultry laughter flowed from the phone. Saffron curbed the irrational jealousy that welled inside her and attempted to maintain her composure.

Even though she’d given him four years of her life, when it came right down to it, she had no rights where Joao was concerned. He didn’t care about her beyond her excellent organisational skills.

Not once had he asked her what her interests were outside the office—not that she had much time to pursue any of them. Her last two birthdays had passed her by because she’d been so engrossed in making Joao Oliviera’s life problem-free that she’d missed them.

And the fact that there’d been no one else to remind her—no family, friends, nor even acquaintances—and that her boss hadn’t known to treat those days differently from any other work-hard-and-then-even-harder days, had been just one of the many things that had bruised her deep inside when she’d finally girded her loins and taken stock of her life.

Unsurprisingly, all the things wrong with her life had been down to one man.

Joao Oliviera.

So, no, she wasn’t going to waste a moment’s energy on being jealous. And when she was done with her task here, he could charm the birds from the trees for all she cared. She wouldn’t be around to see it. Wouldn’t experience that stressful little pull in her chest when he arranged an assignation with the next supermodel or socialite.

Thankfully he hadn’t done that since Morocco. Not to her knowledge anyway, which in no way proved conclusively that he hadn’t—

Enough!

Interrupting her own spiralling thoughts, she refocused to find Joao’s gaze raking over her body, lingering for a moment on the document in her hand before rising to meet her eyes.

Her heart lurched.

For the last eight weeks, he’d treated her with cool indifference. He’d watched her when he’d wanted to and ignored her when it had pleased him.

Saffie was forced to admit it was that detachment that had finally triggered her actions. That knowledge that she couldn’t endure much more of this, couldn’t pretend that her life hadn’t boiled down to being an insignificant satellite that orbited around his brilliance.

That Morocco hadn’t happened.

She pressed her lips together, fighting the chaotic sensations in mind and body as Joao let out a low, deep laugh.

‘Sim, I’ll respect you in the morning. You’ll leave satisfied that your legacy is in the best hands possible.’

Long fingers tapped the smooth surface of his glass desk, drawing her attention to its graceful elegance, its subdued power. From there it was a mere skip to unlocking memories of when those fingers made firm, deliberate contact with her skin. Stroked and teased and branded, leaving an indelible mark on her.

She watched his arm rise, his fingers stretching out in silent command for the document.

While Joao’s ability to multitask was another skilful feather in his cap, she hadn’t anticipated executing this task while he conducted one of the biggest deals of his company’s history.

But...the order of things didn’t matter. She was here to take her life back.

So, do it.

Lips pressed firmly together, she handed over the paper.

Perhaps her expression gave her away. Perhaps the poker face that had seen her through four long years but had begun to crack after Morocco had finally let her down.

Seconds breathlessly ticked by as he continued to recite facts and figures to Lavinia in his deep accented voice, all without taking his eyes off Saffron’s face. A full minute later, his gaze finally dropped to the sheet.

Shrewd eyes skimmed the document with lightning speed. Then his breathtaking face tightened.

Her insides jumped as those hypnotic eyes rose to lock on hers.

‘Sim,’ he murmured smoothly to Lavinia, although Saffie heard curt edginess wrapped around the word. ‘But remember I’m not a patient man. I want your company, and I will play your games for now. But eventually one of us will grow bored and resort to...other measures. Prepare yourself for that scenario, too, meu querido. Until the next time.’

The words might have been directed into the phone but Saffie felt their impact deep inside.

With a casual flick of his hand, he ended the call. Then chilled, narrowed eyes rose from her carefully crafted resignation letter to her face.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ he breathed in a low, deadly voice.

Saffron called on every last crumb of composure and held his stare. ‘It’s exactly as it says. I’m tendering my resignation.’

His gaze flickered with a hint of disbelief, then dropped to the page. ‘For “personal reasons”? You do not have a personal life, therefore you cannot have personal reasons. Therefore—’ he flicked a disdainful finger at the sheet ‘—this is a blatant lie.’

She didn’t want to be hurt by the caustic words. By now, she should be immune to his brand of ruthless disregard for any impediment that stood between him and whatever goal he pursued. And yet that mysterious pang that had sprung up the morning after their fateful night burrowed deeper into her heart.

‘Thank you so much for pointing that out. And while I’m at it, thank you for the flowers and jewellery, although I won’t be accepting them. I’m assuming you’re about to step things up with Lavinia, hence the need for that outrageous bribe?’

Not by a flicker of an eyelash did he acknowledge any wrongdoing in commissioning a necklace most monarchs would give an eye tooth for. ‘You’re building up to a point, I expect? Some sort of negotiation perhaps?’ he mused.

‘You’re not going to give me the courtesy of an answer?’

‘I believe one of the first things we discussed at the start of your employment was not to ask questions you already know the answers to. Would you like me to repeat mine? Because you haven’t given me a satisfactory answer.’

‘Every answer you need is in that letter. I’m resigning for personal reasons. Effective immediately after the requisite notice period.’

The gaze he flicked at the letter was filled with such singeing disdain, Saffron was surprised it didn’t catch fire.

‘You’re not flighty. You’re supremely efficient. Dependable. Level-headed. One of the most hardworking people I know. In the past four years, there hasn’t been a single task you haven’t executed to my satisfaction,’ he drawled, angling his body back to lounge in the high-backed, throne-like chair a vaunted French furniture designer had fashioned exclusively for him. The stance threw his gladiator-like frame into high-definition relief, the sunlight doing its part to showcase his perfect body.

Saffron’s thighs snapped together as heat singed her feminine core and burrowed deep, sensuously, into her pelvis, reminding how it’d felt to have that body up close, personal...naked.

Inside her.

‘Thank you. I’m glad you noticed.’

Her sarcasm went over his head. As with most things he thought beneath his regard. Why was she even surprised?

‘Which is why I’m puzzled by your need to couch your so-called resignation in such...whimsical, flowery prose. You’re “honoured by the opportunity” to have worked with me? You wish me “the brightest of futures”? Your experience with me will remain “an unforgettable experience”?’ he recited.

Fine, so she’d let her nerves run away with her in the early hours of the morning when she’d redrafted the letter yet again, but did he really need to repeat it in such mocking tones? ‘Believe it or not, everything on there is true—’

‘Everything on here is nonsense!’ His deep voice was a merciless scythe through her response. ‘Your resignation is not accepted. Especially not at such a crucial point in my dealings with Lavinia. We’ve been going about this all wrong. It’s time to flip the script. To win her over we have to show her what she doesn’t know she’s missing. Let’s take her out of her comfort zone, in the most enticing way. You think you can handle that?’

Saffron fought the urge to clench her fists and stamp her foot. That would achieve absolutely nothing. Besides, as Joao had so coldly categorised, she wasn’t flighty. She was dependable. Level-headed. Hard-working. Obedient.

Qualities she’d striven for as an orphan. Everything the nuns at St Agnes’s Home For Children had assured her would secure foster parents and eventually parents who would adopt her, only for her to be passed over time and again in favour of others. She’d shed silent tears—because it wouldn’t have done for Sister Zeta to hear her crying and be disappointed in her—when bratty Selena had been chosen instead of her that week before Christmas when she was seven.

She’d been overwhelmed with sorrow when eight months later another smiling couple had walked away with a child that wasn’t her.

Through every heart-rending repetition of those events, she hadn’t shown any outward sign of distress or, even worse, thrown a tantrum like some of the other children. Eventually when her moment had finally arrived at the ripe old age of fourteen, she had refrained from exhibiting any outward signs of elation, lest it be misconstrued.

She’d maintained that self-possession through the two happy years she’d spent with her foster mother, and then through the harrowing eighteen months when her health had rapidly declined. Saffie had kept tearless vigils by her bedside, made the solemn promise that, no, she wouldn’t succumb to loneliness, that, yes, she would seek another family for herself when the time came, no matter what.

When, a week before her eighteenth birthday, Saffron had buried her foster mother, she’d buoyed up everyone at the small funeral gathering, recounting her fondest memories of that wonderful woman and drawing smiles to everyone’s faces. And she’d made sure she was completely alone before shedding a single tear.

It was near enough with that same composure that she pivoted away from Joao’s desk and returned to her desk. Where she placed a call to a number she knew by heart.

Once the call was done, she reached for the velvet box with not quite steady hands and returned to her boss’s office.

‘Are you coming down with an ailment?’ Joao demanded, a healthy dose of that Brazilian temper melting away a layer of indifference. ‘Would you like me to summon the company doctor for you?’

‘That won’t be necessary. I’m absolutely fine. In fact, I’m more than fine. I’m seeing things a little more clearly for the first time in a long while.’

He tensed, his eyes probing deeper. ‘And those things include resigning from a job that you stated in your last evaluation was “the most fulfilling thing” in your life?’

She bit the inside of her cheek, regret for those exposing words drenching her. But again, it was one of the many faults in her life she intended to rectify sharpish. ‘Yes.’

Tense seconds ticked by as he eyed her. ‘You do realise you could’ve stated a number of reasons for resigning besides this personal excuse you’re holding so preciously to your chest?’

The observation stopped her short.

Had it been deliberate? Did she, on some subliminal level, wish him to see beneath her façade, to the heart of her single, deepest desire? To that yearning that had started with a deathbed promise and blossomed soon after her foster mother’s passing, when Saffron had realised she was once again alone in the world, and had known she wouldn’t feel whole again until she fulfilled it? A yearning that had momentarily faded against the brilliant supernova that was Joao, only to re-emerge invigorated, viscerally demanding fulfilment?

No.

One night had been enough. The last thing she wanted was to reveal any more of her vulnerabilities to a man like Joao Oliviera. A man who breathed and bled commerce. A man who dropped his lovers swiftly and without mercy the moment they harboured the barest notions of permanence. A man without a family and a blatantly stated anathema towards ever encumbering himself with one.

‘I was hoping you’d respect my privacy and leave it at that.’

‘We have never deluded one another, Saffie. Let us not start now.’

Her breath caught at the accented way he pronounced her shortened name. Saahfie.

Each time it sent electric shivers down her spine, made her breasts tingle and her belly flip-flop in giddy excitement. This time was no different despite the volatile tension arcing between them.

But his statement made her breath catch for different, more terrible, reasons.

She had lived through months, perhaps even years of delusion.

Ultimately, that shameful realisation that she was chasing dreams, and wasting precious time doing so, was why she stood before him now.

‘Your letter threw up red flags. I’m acknowledging those flags and demanding to know what’s going on. Especially since we parted company only a few hours ago and you gave no inkling of pulling this stunt.’

‘Firstly, it’s not a stunt. Secondly, did it occur to you that I might not want to do this for ever? You might imagine you have immortal blood flowing through your veins and are therefore going to live for ever. Some of us are more cognisant of our mortality. So pardon me if I’ve realised that I don’t want to work until two a.m. on a Monday morning only to turn around and return to the office at seven-thirty to put in another eighteen hours.’

A dark frown descended over his brows and something like disappointment shot through his eyes. For whatever reason his anger didn’t grate as much as his disappointment. ‘That’s the problem? You’re complaining about your workload? You have my permission to hire yourself another assistant.’

She eased her grip on the box, breached the last few steps to his desk and set it down. ‘I can’t accept this. Even if I weren’t leaving, it would still be too much. I’ve donated the flowers to the gala organisers for the charity dinner you’re attending this evening. Prepare for Lady Monroe’s effusiveness when she sees you tonight. She believes they’ll easily fetch twenty thousand pounds if they’re auctioned off—’

‘Pelo amor de—enough with this lifeless performance. Tell me what you want and let’s get it out of the way so we can get back to work! Give away the flowers if you wish but the necklace is yours.’

‘Joao—’

‘It cannot be money. I already pay you ten times more than your closest rival. I’d offer to triple that salary but I suspect you’d say—’

‘It’s not money.’

He gave a brisk nod. ‘Bom, we’re getting somewhere. What is it, then?’

Her heart stuttered. She couldn’t tell him. Not everything and certainly not what had triggered her decision to walk away. His indifference since their night in Morocco had said everything.

At best, that disappointment on his face would deepen. At worse, he’d mock her for letting emotions get the better of her.

But she wasn’t a robot.

Her life was flashing past before her eyes and she’d already given him more years than she’d originally planned. And with every day she sacrificed her innermost needs on the altar of Joao’s newest business obsession, she despaired a little more.

And perhaps even hated him a fraction, too. For that indifference she knew would never change. For his inability to step down from his god-like throne and deign to acknowledge the needs of mere humans.

Her needs.

‘You want to know why I’m leaving? It’s simple. I’ve decided you’re not the answer to my every problem.’

His eyes narrowed into dark gold slits. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’ he snapped. ‘Stop playing games and speak plainly!’

Irritation bristled through her. ‘Or else what? You’re going to stop me from walking out?’

Silence throbbed between them.

Slowly he rose, his impressive height dwarfing hers even from across the desk as he removed the cufflinks from his shirtsleeves, and meticulously folded them back.

She didn’t want to watch, didn’t want to acknowledge that extra dose of virile masculinity that made him impossible to ignore. But she couldn’t help herself. Her gaze dropped to follow every inch of silky-hair-dusted forearms that was exposed. Tiny lightning bolts fired through her, blazing her already aggravated libido as she wondered how those strong arms would feel banded around her waist again, drawing her close to the towering perfection of his hard, muscled body.

‘What is going on, Saffie?’ The low-voiced demand, wrapped in power and authority, jerked her from her lustful reverie.

Her fingers gripped the straps of her handbag. At no point had she deluded herself that resigning as Joao’s executive assistant after living and breathing the role for four full-on years would be easy. But she hadn’t anticipated it being this hard either. If he’d shown zero interest in her life outside the walls of his existence before Morocco, he’d been a million times more detached since.

He didn’t know about her childhood in the orphanage, about her short, happy spell with her foster mother. About her devastation when she’d been orphaned once again.

About the promise she’d made.

Her heart thundered as she panicked that he wouldn’t let go until she gave him something. She didn’t realise she was slicking a nervous tongue over her bottom lip until his gaze dropped to her mouth.

For a single moment, detachment vanished.

Then it returned full force, bruising her with its severity.

‘Do you remember how I came to be your assistant in the first place?’ Saffie asked, needing temporary relief from this quagmire.

His frown intensifying, he dropped the cufflinks in a drawer and slammed it shut. ‘I fail to see how that’s relevant.’

‘It’s relevant to me. I was supposed to be here temporarily, while my old boss, Mr Harcourt, was on holiday. You’d just fired your own assistant, remember?’

‘Barely. I’m still not seeing how this is material—’

‘My point is, I was supposed to be here for two weeks. I’ve been here for four years. And by the way, is it true you offered Mr Harcourt early retirement so you could keep me here?’

Again, he didn’t so much as blink. ‘Sim. I knew by the end of your first week that you were far more suited to me. Your talents were wasted creating company retreat spreadsheets so I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse,’ he said with zero remorse.

‘Well... I’m glad that’s out of the way.’

His jaw gritted but a wary gleam entered his eyes. A gleam that said he was realising that this wasn’t a tantrum or a stunt. That she might actually mean it. ‘Now that we’ve wandered uselessly down memory lane, can we get back on track? What would it take for you to end this? Name your price and I’ll make it happen.’

Name your price.

If only she could.

If only she didn’t know the futility of naming her actual price.

She stared at him, her heart hammering as it had every time she’d contemplated taking this final step.

Granted, the thought that she would one day soon wake up and not be in his presence left her bereft. But then she forced herself to think of what else she would be replacing that experience with. The fulfilment her heart and soul yearned for. A true connection. A life-affirming purpose. ‘My price is my freedom, Joao. I gave you two weeks, then I added four years to that. Now I want out.’

Leisurely he leaned forward, his bronzed forearms rippling as he resettled his weight on his hands, brought that red-hot sensuality dangerously closer, and glared at her across the desk. ‘You have one last chance to give me a clear, concise reason for this absurdity, Saffie.’

The urge to tussle with him sizzled bright and urgently within her. What did she have to lose? In a few short weeks, she’d be out of his life. He planned to conquer the world, while she planned to retreat from his orbit, hopefully to embark on a lifelong project her soul had screamed for since she was a child. Since she’d tasted loneliness and vowed to make her life more meaningful.

Once she was done with Joao, she highly doubted their paths would ever cross again.

Ignoring the twinge in her chest, she boldly stepped forward, placing both feet on the battle ground. ‘Very well. You want the unvarnished truth? You’re a brilliant businessman, Joao. But you’re also a ruthless vampire. You take and you take, and you think throwing diamonds and flowers and unimaginable perks grants you automatic authority over my life. Well, it doesn’t. I mapped out a path for myself when I joined your company. I put my plans on hold and now I’m making them a priority again. I’m resigning because I want more. More from life. I want freedom from being consumed by you. Freedom to dream of other things besides the acquisition of your next Fortune 500 company. Freedom to dream of a family. A baby. Of turning that dream into a reality.’ She paused, her insides shaking at the thought of taking that last, intensely ravaging but necessary step. ‘I want freedom from you.’