CHAPTER FOUR
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GIA
It wasn’t what he said—or not only what he said—it was the way he said it. The way his eyes locked on mine like I was the only person in the entire world. Like he was…making a proposition.
Heat spread through my body, and I squeezed my thighs together discreetly, hoping he didn’t notice. I might have pleasured myself to the memory of him last night, but that was a fantasy.
The real Isaac Crane, though sexy as hell, was an asshole. He acted like he could do anything he wanted and sorry, I wasn’t one of those things.
“I…” I cleared my throat. “A job?”
He leaned against the island, folding his arms across his chest. I tried not to stare at his muscular arms or the long line of his legs. Or every other perfect part of his body. “I need an assistant.”
“What?”
He arched one brow, as if to say eloquence wasn’t my strong suit. “An assistant is someone who—”
“I know what an assistant is.” I couldn’t help the snap in my voice. Damn him, all cocky and holier than thou. “I’m sure you can find someone infinitely more qualified.”
“I want you.”
The words zapped me right in the core. I squeeze my legs together even tighter. “I…”
His phone rang and he stared at it a moment as if deciding whether the distraction was worth it. Then he answered, listened for a minute, and said, “Come up.” He nodded at me. “It’s our food. You think about what I said for a minute.”
Before I could tell him I didn’t need to think about anything, he walked to the elevator and waited while it dinged and opened up to reveal one of the hotel staff rolling a cart full of food. And orange juice. Lots of orange juice.
Damn. The man sure knew how to command a room. Isaac moved smoothly, spoke with authority—practically had the guy with the cart trembling in his bowtie.
Mr. Crane whipped out a few bills that looked suspiciously like the one the lady with the purse had given me yesterday, and had the man with cart gaping. He finally stuttered out, “Thank you, sir. Mr. Crane.”
“That’s all,” Mr. Crane said, dismissing him.
He hurried to the elevator and vanished.
My mouth was already open, ready to give Mr. Crane a piece of my mind. But then he snapped, “Breakfast first.”
What the hell? Did he think it was okay to boss people around like this? Oh yeah…I guess I was his employee and he was my boss, but still. I could handle working down at the store, but working directly for Mr. Crane? No way, then he really would boss me around. I couldn’t live like that.
Mr. Crane put a platter in front of me, taking off the lid to reveal everything from bacon to eggs and French toast. He set the bowl of fruit next to me and poured a large glass of orange juice. “Anything else?”
Anything else? Like I was the one who insisted on ordering breakfast.
“No, thanks,” I said. See? I still had manners even when he was being an ass.
When he didn’t join me, only stood watching, I folded my hands in my lap. “You can’t stand there and watch me. Sit. Eat.”
His dark eyebrows lowered over his eyes. I bit back a laugh. It wasn’t as much fun when you were the one being bossed around.
To my surprise, he sat on the stool next to me—so much closer than I would have preferred—and opened his own platter. We ate in silence a few moments before he started in on the job again.
“You’ll get a substantial raise,” he said.
I started to shake my head, but he quoted a number, and I choked on my bacon. Coughing, almost sputtering, I accepted the glass of orange juice he offered me. It took a few swallows and got the coughing under control.
“I’m assuming by that reaction that’s acceptable to you,” he said.
I gaped at him. “Acceptable?”
“Acceptable means that you—”
“Oh, my God. I know what acceptable means.” I pushed back in my chair and stood. “And no, it’s not acceptable. I can’t work for you.”
“But you already do.”
This man was infuriating. “I can’t work for you in that capacity. We clearly don’t get along and—”
“What does getting along have to do with it?”
“Everything. It has—what are you doing?”
He stood from his chair, taking a step closer to me. “Convincing you.”
For a minute, I thought he was going to kiss me. His eyes gentled, and his hand came up. He trapped my chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilted my face up, so our gazes connected.
“I don’t need convincing…” But he didn’t seem to hear me.
“Ms. Tanner. Gia. I need you to do this. I can’t find anyone else. I need someone I trust.”
“But—”
“I need you.”
<<<>>>
ISAAC
I waited, convinced I’d win her over by those words alone. After all, that’s part of what drew me to her in the first place. Her complete lack of selfishness. It was her nature to help people, to do the right thing—I’d seen that much and more in the months I’d been watching her.
Her lips parted, breath releasing in a soft sigh. My gut clenched, balls drawing up. Shit. If she kept looking at me like that, I wasn’t going to be able to help myself. People always used to say I was compulsive. That was part of the reason I’d stayed away from the outside world for so long. There were other ones, too, but that one was my fault.
I moved my thumb, trailing it along her bottom lip. It was so soft, so perfect. I wanted to hear my name from her lips. To hear her shout out in ecstasy when I buried myself in her.
“I don’t understand,” she whispered.
It broke my trance. She needed details. She needed to know more. Then she’d understand.
Stepping back, I grabbed her hand and tugged her down the hallway to the studio. Her eyes widened when she got inside. “I thought this was just a regular suite—it looks like you live here. Permanently.”
“This place was built with that in mind,” I said, keeping it simple. I knew I needed to be close to my business—especially knowing the rest. That I didn’t ever plan on truly being part of it again.
She opened her mouth to ask more questions, but then saw the paintings. She pulled from my grasp and walked to the one on the easel. She reached out her hand, almost as if to touch it, but then pulled back.
“I’ve seen one like this before. Those paintings downstairs in the store…” She whipped around. “You’re the artist?”
“No one knows but Logan. And now you.”
“I—I wasn’t going to tell anyone. But…” She wandered to the table, where several other paintings were on display, some very similar to those downstairs. “I love this series.”
I did too. It was one of my favorites. Until I’d seen Gia and couldn’t imagine painting anything else but her.
“I don’t know much about painting. I don’t—”
“You’re an artist. Photography, right?”
She turned around again, and this time her eyes narrowed. She bit her lower lip, and I nearly grabbed her arms to stop her. No, to take over. To bite her lip myself, to nibble my way down her jaw, her neck, to her breasts. I’d take one pert nipple between my teeth and make her cry out…
“How did you know?” she asked.
I fought back the sudden grin that wanted to come out. “Social media.”
Which I didn’t spend any time on, but she didn’t need to know that.
“I don’t believe you,” she said.
“Try.”
She crossed her arms under her breasts, pushing them up enough to have me distracted. But then she stalked toward me with purpose in her eyes. “It feels like you know more about me than I know about you.”
“I’m your boss, isn’t that how it works?”
“If you were my boss, you’d be coming down to the store to talk to me. Or meeting with me somewhere…” She glanced around. “I don’t know—somewhere people have meetings. You wouldn’t have me up here in your home.”
I gritted my teeth. She was playing the professional card—and I couldn’t argue. If this had been five years ago, there’s no way in hell I would have had any of my employees step foot in my home. Business stayed at work. And pleasure stayed at home.
“So, what’s the deal, Mr. Crane?” she asked, voice lower as she stepped closer.
“There’s no deal.”
“Then next time you want to talk to me, do it in a neutral meeting space.”
“What’s the fucking difference,” I growled, hating the challenge I saw in her eyes. I didn’t owe her an explanation.
Gia’s mouth dropped open at the anger in my tone. “You’re scared,” she whispered after a moment. “Monica was right. You’re scared to leave your house. You—”
I gripped her arm tightly, ignoring the sharp gasp she gave. “It’s time for you to go.”
“Damn right,” she hissed.
At the elevator, I released her as though she’d burned me. I jammed my finger against the button, trying to quell the urgency building inside of me, the panic threatening to take over.
She crossed her arms again and entered the elevator immediately after it opened. Then she turned around, and just as the doors closed, said, “I quit.”