Dominic makes me wait.

It’s an exquisite torture, thinking of him, waiting for his text messages to arrive, hoping every moment that I’ll step away from my desk and come back to find another one of those white envelopes.

I force myself not to get lost in the fantasies, even though it’s an effort that I make every hour of every day.

Because I’m here to do a job.

I’m here to do a job that has consequences for the country, as well as for Wilder Enterprises, and even though I’m totally swept up in this man, in waiting for him to make the next move, I can’t let myself drown entirely.

Wednesday goes by with no word from him, then Thursday. After Tuesday’s gift, I’m not concerned that he’s forgotten me—I’m not worried about that at all. With every moment that goes by, it becomes more and more clear that he’s playing this game at a more advanced level than any other man I’ve known.

I roll my eyes. Not that I’ve been in relationships like this with any other man.

The thought brings me up short as I’m writing up a meeting agenda for Mr. Overhiser.

A relationship?

No.

What am I thinking?

I let out a short little laugh, which naturally draws the older man out from his office.

“Vivienne,” he says in a jovial tone that somehow manages to seem predatory at the same time. “Care to share?”

“Oh, you know.” I give him an indulgent smile. I need him to trust me implicitly, without him getting even the slightest hint that I’m attracted to him in any way. He might be some kind of old lecher outside office hours, but I’m not taking any chances while I work for him. “I was remembering something funny I saw in a movie last weekend.”

“What movie?”

I’m ready with the name of the latest blockbuster hit on the tip of my tongue. Years in the FBI have made this sort of advance preparation habitual, so it’s rare that I’m caught off-guard.

By anyone but Dominic.

“That was a good one.” He shifts his weight from one foot to another, and I follow up with a close-lipped smile and start to turn my attention back to my computer. “Oh, Vivienne?”

“Yes?” I look up at him with as neutral an expression as possible.

“I’m going to be heading out a few hours early today.” A few hours early—it’s a little past noon. He frowns a little, like he doesn’t want to ask me what he’s about to ask me. “I’ll need you to stay until five.”

I wave a hand in the air. “That’s no problem. I’m finalizing the meeting agenda for Monday, and then I’ll be cross-checking to make sure the schedule is still a green light for the other attendees. Is there anything else you’d like me to take care of before I leave?”

He pretends as if he’s only now thought of a few more things, but I see right through his act as he reels them off. After the second item on the list, I pull out a notepad and take down careful notes. When he finally stops speaking, I set the notepad down carefully on the desk and glance at my computer screen. “I’ll be sure to have that all finished before I leave for the evening.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s absolutely no problem, Mr. Overhiser.”

Then he disappears back into his office and I hear him opening various drawers in his desk and file cabinet. Less than a week on the job, and I can already time the swooshes and thuds to the second. This is the sound of Mr. Overhiser leaving for the evening and going God knows where. He has a wife, but from the whispers I overhear around the water cooler, he definitely doesn’t spend his evenings with her. One of the other women, Candy, had leaned in close to me on Wednesday afternoon. “I think he’s in one of those secret clubs.” She’d given me a meaningful look. “You know.”

I don’t know what kind of secret club she’s referring to, but I do know that the city is littered with exclusive clubs for every different taste, and Mr. Overhiser will be going to one that caters to the wealthy.

I wonder if that’s where he meets his contact.

Luckily for me, he’s presenting me with a prime opportunity on a silver platter.

I hear his voice, speaking low, and know we’ve reached the end of the “getting ready to leave” performance. He’s calling his driver to bring the car around, and then he’s striding through the small reception area next to my desk.

“Enjoy your weekend, Vivienne.” His eyes linger a little too long on my neckline, which is purposefully high, but his eyes don’t stray anywhere else.

I watch him get into the elevator, and then I wait another ten minutes.

I finish the meeting agenda, send an email to all the other chief executive assistants, and then stand up from my desk, bustling around, rearranging papers for the benefit of anyone who might happen to walk by Mr. Overhiser’s office.

I step into his main office, put something on the desk, and then step back out again, sitting down at mine for another few minutes. It’s an elaborate performance, but there’s nothing I’m doing that would signal anything out of the ordinary.

When the moment feels right, I slip a flash drive out of my top desk drawer, grab a pile of folders, and head back into his office, sitting down confidently in front of his computer.

I type in his password without hesitating. He only had to enter it in front of me once for me to memorize it. I stick the flash drive into one of the ports, turn my attention to the folder, and wait the fifteen seconds it takes for the drive to work its magic, downloading Overhiser’s search history and email logs for the past six months. That should be more than enough to determine if there’s a connection. It’s been three months since this company was flagged by the FBI.

When the download is finished, I take out the flash drive, pile up the folders, and make my way back to my desk, sitting down in time for the desk phone to ring.

My heart is only beating slightly harder.

“Mr. Overhiser’s office.” My voice is smooth, betraying absolutely nothing.

“Vivienne.”

One word and my entire body is alight with desire. “Mr. Wilder.” I’m careful in my response, because the door is open to the rest of the offices and half the executive assistants are as gossip-obsessed as Marie. “What can I do for you?”

“Are you hungry?”

I’d been expecting a thousand other responses, most having to do with the sensual and sexy things he’d like to do with me—and to me—but this one throws me for a loop.

“Am I—um, I haven’t eaten yet.”

“Are your responsibilities taken care of for the lunch hour?”

“Of course.” I inject a little insult into my tone. “I’m ahead of schedule, in fact.” More than you know…

“Come have lunch with me.”

“In your office?”

“In my penthouse. The elevator will ask you for a code. It’s 1123.”

It’s been three days since I’ve spoken to him. There’s no decision to be made.

“I’m on my way.”