The Specialist (Norcross #3) - Anna Hackett Page 0,2
this woman called him Mr. Norcross, he got hard.
She was dressed like a man’s fantasy. Her gorgeous curves were packed into a fire-engine-red dress. Her silky, blonde hair was piled up on her head; strands of it escaped to tease the slender line of her neck.
“I’m in charge of my little piece of the world,” he drawled.
She cocked her hip. “You aren’t in charge of people.”
He sat back in his chair, not examining why trading barbs with Harlow woke something up inside him.
Since he’d left the Army, Easton had thrown himself into business. It had given him purpose.
And kept the dark memories at bay.
He worked hard, played when he had the time, and put in extra effort to control his little part of the world.
“I’m in charge of a lot of people,” he countered. “You seem to be the only one who has trouble with my orders.”
She smiled. “Which is why you keep me around.”
“I’m going to fire you and send you back to Meredith, as soon as I find a competent replacement.”
Harlow made a sound, completely unconcerned. Of course, he’d threatened to fire her multiple times a day ever since she started with him. Nothing rattled the woman.
Except the message she’d gotten two days ago. She’d been pale, upset, and refused to tell him what was going on.
It was eating at him. He’d find out. He always got what he wanted.
Although, she seemed fine tonight, and far too edible in that red dress. He scowled. He hated that she’s worn it for some schmuck.
“I left the files right here.” She slapped the desk and her gaze narrowed. “Did you move them to mess with me?”
He raised a brow. “Yes, I wanted your delightful company at—” he looked at his Rolex “—9:25 at night.”
She made a harrumphing sound and moved to the sleek credenza against the wall. Her curvy form was silhouetted by the lights of San Francisco through his floor-to-ceiling windows. She leaned over the credenza, her dress hugging her ass.
Easton’s hands clenched on his pen, and his hard cock throbbed.
She worked for him. Even if it was only temporary, she was off limits.
And besides, she drove him crazy. She’d do the same in bed.
Or bent over his desk.
Shit.
“Here.” She lifted a file triumphantly.
“The cleaners were in here when I left to grab some dinner,” he said.
Harlow slapped a hand on her chest…which made him notice the swell of her breasts.
Fuck. Get a grip, Norcross.
“You stopped work to eat?” she said. “It’s a miracle.”
He shot her a look. She was a first-class smartass. He took the file from her.
“I’m sorry I had to call you in.” He wasn’t really.
She sighed. “It’s okay. The date was a bust anyway.” She circled the desk and grabbed her coat and bag. “Right, good luck with your meeting in the morning.” She shuddered. “I wouldn’t wake up at 4:30 AM for anything, even to make millions of dollars.”
“Tens of millions of dollars.”
She rolled her pretty, blue-green eyes. He still hadn’t decided if they were blue or green, since they seemed to change colors.
Easton’s head filled with a few ways he’d happily wake her up that early. He gripped the edge of the desk. He had to get this incendiary desire under control.
“Okay, Mr. Heart-Attack-Waiting-to-Happen, I’m out of here.”
He rose. “How are you getting home?”
“Uber.”
“No.”
“Yes,” she called back.
“No.”
She spun and rested her hands on her hips. “I’ve gotten Ubers for years. I’ve also been an adult for years, too. That means I make my own decisions.”
“I’m leaving now. I’ll drop you at home.”
She dragged in a breath. “No.”
Easton grabbed his own jacket and shrugged into it. He looked up to find her staring at his chest. While she was distracted, he took her coat and held it out for her.
She shot him a disgruntled look, then turned and slipped into her coat. “You are so annoyingly bossy.”
“Yes.”
“You’re not even sorry.”
He paused. “Not really.” He stepped closer and her perfume hit him. It was a blend of something musky and sexy, with an undertone that was pure Harlow. “I’m dropping you off at home. I dragged you in here, it’s the least I can do.”
“Fine. But only because I love your car.” They headed toward the elevator.
They zoomed down to the parking garage and he led her to his gunmetal-gray Aston Martin Superleggera. When he opened the door, she slid in, flashing a lot of long leg.
He stared at the concrete ceiling and prayed for a break. Then he circled the car and slid in.