The coffee cup exploded against the mahogany wall of his office, a dark, bitter spray staining the portrait of some stern-looking ancestor. Darius's hand was still curled in the air, a fist of pure, unadulterated irritation.
"Cazzo, Layana! Is your head today for decoration? This is not the way I take my coffee. It is swill. Pig swill."
Layana jumped, her heart hammering against her ribs. She clutched the empty serving tray to her chest like a shield. "I... I'm sorry, Signor Vitale. I'll make another."
"Signor Vitale," he mocked, his voice a low, gravelly roll that she felt in the pit of her stomach. He finally lowered his hand, his knuckles white. "We shared a sandbox, sposina. You used to call me Darius. Or have you forgotten that, too?" He advanced around the desk, a predator in a five-thousand-euro suit. The scent of his cologne, something dark and expensive like oud and leather, enveloped her.
She hadn't forgotten. How could she? Darius, six years older, her brother's best friend. The boy who'd taught her to ride a bike, then left for boarding school in Milan and came back a man—a bitter, sharp-edged man who seemed to despise the very air she breathed. And now, through some cruel twist of fate and her father's pleading, she was his executive secretary.
"I... it's professional," she stammered, taking a step back. Her hip bumped the edge of his desk, stopping her retreat.
"Professional," he snorted, stopping mere inches from her. His eyes, the color of dark espresso, dropped to her lips, then lower, tracing the line of her throat where her pulse fluttered wildly. "You think this is professional? Spilling coffee like a clumsy child? Wearing a dress that... Dio mio."
He didn't finish. He just let his gaze burn a path down her body; over the simple, knee-length sheath dress she'd thought was appropriately modest. Under his scrutiny, the navy wool felt as thin as silk. Her mumme felt traitorously sensitive, her nipples tightening against the fabric. She didn't understand the heat in his look, interpreting it only as more criticism.
"It's from the company dress code catalogue," she defended, her voice smaller than she intended.
"They did not account for your tangein in that catalogue," he muttered, almost to himself, before his eyes snapped back to hers. "The new intern. Giovanni. You smiled at him in the hall."
The non-sequitur threw her. "I... I smile at everyone. It's polite."
"Do not." The command was absolute, a sliver of ice in the heat of his anger. "Your smiles are not for him. They are a distraction. An unnecessary complication."
"You can't tell me who to smile at!" The protest leapt from her, edged with a defiance she didn't truly feel.
A slow, dangerous smile touched his lips. It didn't reach his eyes. "Can't I?" He leaned in, one hand planting on the desk beside her hip, caging her in. "I am the Vice President. You are my secretary. I can tell you to bring me coffee that does not taste like the dregs of a sewer. I can tell you to file papers without smudging the ink with your... delicate fingers." His voice dropped to a whisper, his breath ghosting over her ear. "And I can certainly tell a ragazzina who has no idea what she is playing with to stop inviting trouble."
She was trembling. She could feel the fine shake in her hands, in her knees. "I'm not a little girl, Darius."
"No," he agreed, his gaze dipping to the rapid rise and fall of her chest. "You are not. And that is the entire problem." He reached out, not touching her, but close enough that she felt the heat of his fingers just above the bare skin of her arm. "You move through this office with an innocence that is either a brilliant performance or a profound stupidity. I have not decided which."
His words should have offended her. They should have made her shove him away. Instead, a confusing, warm ache bloomed low in her belly. His nearness was intoxicating, a drug she knew was bad for her but craved, nonetheless.
"Why do you hate me so much?" The question was out before she could stop it, a bare, vulnerable whisper.
For a fraction of a second, the mask of anger slipped. Something raw and hungry flashed in the depths of his eyes, a look so intense it stole the air from her lungs. It was the look from their childhood, the one he'd given her the summer before he left, just before he'd almost kissed her.Just as quickly, it was gone, shuttered behind a wall of cold impatience.
"Stupida," he breathed, but the insult lacked its previous venom. It sounded almost like an endearment. He straightened up, breaking the electric proximity, and turned his back to her, running a hand through his perfectly styled dark hair. "Get out. And send in Giovanni. I need to discuss his... future with the company."
The dismissal was a physical blow. Confused, her body thrumming with adrenaline and something else she couldn't name, Layana fumbled for the tray and hurried toward the door.
"Layana."
She froze, her hand on the brass doorknob, not daring to look back.His voice was quiet, laced with a promise that sounded like a threat. "We are not finished. This discussion... it is only the beginning. You will learn what happens to men who try to claim what is mine. Now, go."
As she fled into the cool, sterile air of the hallway, his final words echoed in her mind, a dark vow that coiled around her heart. What is mine. She didn't understand. She only knew that the tremor in her hands had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the terrifying, thrilling certainty that Darius Vitale was about to unravel her completely. And part of her, a secret, hidden part she barely acknowledged, was desperately eager for it.
