Sandra’s office doors are open when I step into the office.

He’s gone.

My heart sinks right into my shoes, which is so stupid.

Why do I care that some arrogant rich asshole has left the building?

I don’t, I tell myself sternly, knowing even as I think it that it’s a lie.

I lasted for two minutes after the doors to Sandra’s office closed behind him before I stood up and bolted for the bathroom. Leaning against the faux-marble wall in the largest stall I struggled to catch my breath.

And—shit. I left my phone at my desk, so I can’t search for him on the Internet.

Hunter.

Hunter.

I’ve heard the name, but he has nothing to do with the fashion industry, and that’s the only thing I’ve allowed myself to think of for over a year now.

I waited until the buzzing had mellowed in my veins enough for me to walk out of the bathroom with confidence, my back straight and my chin up. My plan was to go back to my desk, and when he left the meeting with Sandra, I’d show him. I’m not some flighty bitch who gets bowled over by some jerk in a fancy business suit. I don’t need him.

I need my job.

But as I get closer to the office doors and my heart speeds up, a little voice in the back of my mind whispers: Don’t you need him? Don’t you?

No. If anything, I want him. What woman wouldn’t be attracted to someone that unbelievably sexy? Wanting isn’t the same as needing.

The voice whispers again: Oh, yes, it is.

I’m three steps away from the office when it hits me.

What if he’s the solution to Williams-Martin’s bankruptcy issue?

I brush the thought aside. If he is, I’ll know in a matter of minutes—that is, if Sandra decides to throw me a bone.

She’s calling my name the moment I step through the doors, and a rush of relief washes over me. That stupid little trip to the bathroom could have cost me the relative peace of the afternoon. It’s almost enough to mask how my heart is crushed when I register the open doors.

I pick up my notepad on the way in, and before I’ve even fully approached Sandra’s desk she’s listing off things that must be accomplished before the hour is out.

“Push all the meetings from this morning to the afternoon. You can inform anyone who wants to reschedule that I’ll cut them from the issue. I want eleven or twelve different tops from Calvin Klein by three. Cut three of the models from the businesswear lineup and send me the top four.”

My furious scribbling pauses almost as soon as she finishes speaking. When she turns her attention back toward her screen, I take that as my queue to leave, but Sandra isn’t done.

“You should know that Mr. Hunter has bought a controlling share of Williams-Martin, and he’s elected not to close Basiqué—for the time being. We have two issues to prove our worth to him. You know what that means, Catherine.”

“I do.” It means that there is no room for error. No room to let up. No room to slow down.

Then Sandra pulls off her reading glasses and turns back to me, looking me straight in the eye, her expression thoughtful, as if she’s considering some deep truth about me that even I have yet to learn.

“Your work here so far has been very satisfactory.” My heart leaps in my chest. This is the first time Sandra has ever given me such high praise, and I feel an intense burst of loyalty, strong and pure. I nod, forcing myself not to smile. Sandra disapproves of giddiness. She speaks again. “As long as you continue to perform, and as long as he leaves us to our own devices, we should be successful.”

I think she might say more, but she dismisses me with a curt nod.

My heart flutters as I make my way back to my desk. There are too many emotions to sort through right now. God, I want him so much, but Sandra has made it crystal clear: he’s the adversary now.

It’s him or my work, and I know which one comes first.

I pull up my email and start firing off messages even while I place phone call after phone call to everyone I cancelled on this morning, summoning them back to Sandra’s office—yes, now, as fast as you can—and though I try to ignore the clock in the upper corner of my screen, I can’t help but watch it as the minutes tick by.

When the emails are finished, I risk it: I pull open a private browser window and type in a search. All I know is his last name, but I add keywords until…there he is, giving the camera a steely look for a promotional photo that looks to be a couple of years ago.

Three clicks later, I’m reading his biography on a Fortune list of New York City’s wealthiest residents. And he’s damn near the top.

I close the window and lean back in my seat, considering what I’ve learned.

It doesn’t make much of a difference.

I wanted him on sight, and it had nothing to do with what he could buy.

What he could do with those hands, that body…

There will be no work at the office tomorrow. I’ll finally get at least half a chance to catch my breath.

By Wednesday I’ll be back in my desk, my focus where it needs to be.

Not on the slick wetness between my legs. Not on the heat rising to my cheeks.

Not on the cocky, mysterious Mr. Hunter.