Poppy stared at the huge wooden desk in wonder. She had never seen a piece of furniture so mighty. It hulked like a mythical four-legged beast before her, crouched and ready to pounce should any trespasser attempt to leave a meeting unexcused. It seemed like everyone assembled was deliberately ignoring it, but there it was.

William Jameson sat enshrined behind it. His presence wasn't dwarfed by his desk, but rather he seemed to loom even larger and more formidably for it, like a king at his dais in the receiving room.

It was on the tip of Poppy's tongue to make some clever remark about his choice of furniture, but she kept it to herself. The desk was overkill, but that didn't mean it didn't suit the man, the office, the…everything. It seemed way too ancient for him, though. She wondered if it was a holdover from the time when his father, or even his grandfather, lorded over Jameson Ad Agency in his place.

Anyway, she didn't like to imagine that William Jameson had anything to compensate for. Not that she made it a habit of imagining William at all, especially not in the recent days since meeting him. Still, it would serve him right if she called his prowess into question now. She couldn't imagine that his insistence on holding the meeting in his office was anything more than a power play.

And she was determined to get out ahead of it.

So this is how the other half lives, Poppy thought as she took a turn about the room. Jameson Agency benefited from its history; Wildflower from its moxie and innovation. They were bound to find out by the end of all this which was the best side of the coin to be on.

"What do you think of my domain, Miss Hanniford?"

Poppy almost jumped, but managed to play it cool at the last second. William had risen from his desk to come up behind her while she was preoccupied. She glanced sidelong at him as he stood behind her, gazing out at the same cityscape she was drinking in. She doubted it interested him as much as he pretended. This latest maneuver was all about her, and she was well aware of it. Hard to ignore the way he stood at her back.

"'Domain' is certainly the word I would use," she agreed. She didn't turn, or give ground. Defying all laws of personal space, William stepped closer to her. Every nerve screamed with awareness of him. The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, as if straining toward the electricity that sizzled between them.

"I like to take ownership of my surroundings," William replied. "Don't you?"

"Playing for the away team never slowed me down before, Mr. Jameson. But I understand if some people aren't comfortable with it."

"Mr. Jameson? Ms. Hanniford?"

The two of them turned when called. One of the younger and more timid-looking authors on the panel held her hand up in apology. "Sorry to interrupt. We're ready to start brainstorming when you are."

Poppy nodded. The panel the publishing house had selected was larger than she expected. Seven authors total, plus herself and William, made even his enormous office feel overcrowded. It wasn't helping matters that she could sense the women's uncertainty. They probably hadn't expected to have to deal directly with two rival ad execs.

They all settled into the chairs that had been brought in for them. Poppy remained by the window, just off to the side of William, who had assumed a position at the head of the room. At least he hadn't sequestered himself back behind the desk. The optics of him ruling over the proceedings like a king definitely wouldn't have worked out well for them here.

"All right. Welcome, everyone." William led them off. "I'd like to get started right away in answering any questions or concerns you might have for me. Us," he corrected quickly. Poppy wondered if the slip had been intentional; in either case, she couldn't resist letting her mouth quirk to betray her amusement. William was so obviously not used to playing with others, much less asking for their input.

The authors all looked at each other. Poppy felt as if she could read their minds. They didn't know whether this was a pleasantry on William's part or a genuine invitation. "Well, our panel is about how to take the traditional images of romance publishing and make them unique," one offered.

"Good," William responded.

Poppy nodded. "And what we're here for is to help you come up with a visual so absolutely explosive as to make our panel the one that attendees can't stop talking about, for years to come. That's exactly where all our heads should be at. We need to tap into the tropes that your readers have been conditioned to look for, but we also need to find a new spin to set our campaign apart. Does anyone have any suggestions?"

The authors all exchanged looks again. They looked a shy, introverted bunch, Poppy realized, but she thought she knew better. There had to be an undercurrent of edge here, otherwise they wouldn't all excel at what they did. She just had to find it and tap into it: it was a vein of gold.

William seemed less patient. He crossed his arms. "Anybody?" he prompted. "Come now. You can't have all come to this meeting unprepared."

Poppy's hackles rose on the authors' behalves. It was no use shaming or blaming this early in the meeting. She placed a hand on his bicep and stepped forward before she knew what she was doing. "I have an idea," she volunteered. “Beginning here. We'll design a romance cover—or at least, an image evocative of a romance cover. We'll put it on posters for the event, blow it up on banners—we'll place it everywhere a pair of eyes has the opportunity to see it."

The authors all exchanged looks. "Book covers aren't usually done that way," one offered.

"But it's every author's dream to have creative control of her own cover," another added. "What did you have in mind when you say 'beginning here’, Miss Hanniford?"

"I want you guys to direct. And don't hold back on ideas." Poppy took an assessing glance at herself, then at William. She had a wild idea, but she wasn't sure how it would pay off… what she really hoped was to relieve some of the women's self-consciousness. She needed them to focus outside of themselves and think more creatively

To do that, Poppy decided, she just might have to make a spectacle of herself.

"Why don't you arrange the two of us in a sort of tableau?" she suggested. "I think we fit the average body types portrayed on your covers. Would that help you visualize better?"

William looked miffed at her accusation of 'average', although it certainly wasn’t what she meant. He was tall, hunky, and probably very gym-sculpted beneath the suit—a man of his station and responsibilities, both professional and private, simply didn't let his own health fall by the wayside in her experience. He probably maintained a strict diet and exercise schedule; the results may have mostly been hidden, but she could still see it in the controlled, graceful way he moved. He was in perfect command of his body, just like he was in perfect command of his company.

"…that would help," one of the authors agreed.

"Oh, I like this idea," another said. She chatted enthusiastically with the woman sitting beside her, who nodded and blushed at something she said. This woman in particular was having a hard time making eye contact with William, or even really looking in his direction. She gave the impression of someone trying very hard not to stare directly into the sun.

"Great!" Poppy clapped her hands, then held her arms out to William.

"What?" he deadpanned. He didn't budge an inch.

"Dip me, Mr. Jameson," she said. "Time to put on a show.”

She prodded him. He was as immobile as a statue…that, Poppy mused, or this was his natural state: rock-hard. Her teasing poke had loosened him up, though. It took some coaxing, but she finally managed to convince William to wrap his arms around her and hold her parallel to the floor. The position was awkward, but the authors were all talking now. Many of them looked dubious, but at least they weren't locked in painful silence.

"Or what if I sort of…" Poppy righted herself and pushed William's arms away, then draped herself in a sultry display over his shoulders. A chorus of disappointed sighs told her this was all wrong. It was a good response—it meant that the wheels were turning.

"We need props," someone suggested.

"Their bodies are the props. What we need is setting," another emphasized. "And set pieces!"

"The desk!"

There was a sudden clamor for the desk, and Poppy and William found themselves ushered over to it. Directions were given, and the two of them arranged themselves accordingly. William bent nearer, and placed his palms down flat on either side of her; Poppy lifted her hand to touch his cheek. His skin was warm, and rough, and so evocative of easy masculinity that she couldn't help losing herself in the moment for a second…only a second. The spicy aroma of his cologne washed over her. She forbade herself from breathing it in too deeply. It was probably formulated to be intoxicating to women.

"You have silver in your hair," she observed.

"Is that your way of implying that I'm old?"

"I think it's distinguished," Poppy replied, before another shouted suggestion had William flipping her and bending her over the desk. His crotch butted up against her ass. Poppy was certain her face must have been bright scarlet in this position—if it were a color in her favorite lipstick line, it would have been "Giveaway Red". But the tone of the room had shifted from mischievous to contemplative, and many of the women were taking furious notes and consulting one another. William politely held the pose for them. The hand that cradled her ribcage and forced her back to arch beneath him stroked her belly idly, and Poppy squirmed.

"Okay. We decided that position is a little too racy and impersonal," one of the authors said.

You think? Poppy wanted to cry out.

"What about this one?" To her surprise, it was William who offered the suggestion. He grabbed her waist and flipped her around so that she was angled back against the desk beneath him. Poppy quickly rearranged herself, then hiked one leg up and looked to her audience. Several of them gasped with happiness. They had just struck gold.

"Now sort of…thread your fingers though her hair," one of the authors instructed. William did. The pressure on Poppy's scalp made her whole head tingle. He didn't just abide by the placement, he actually tugged, and her head fell back a little. She looked up into his eyes. She wanted to smile to reassure him, but she couldn't remember how. His suddenly introspective look pulled her, and it was an alarming moment when she realized: he doesn't need to be reassured. He knew exactly what he was doing. It was only the circumstances surrounding the move that threw him off.

"Now kiss her," one of the authors, the one with her phone out, suggested. Poppy tried to turn her head in alarm, but William's fingers held her fast.

"What?" she squeaked.

"Please, Miss Hanniford, all the best-selling novels have kicked it up a notch in recent years." One author with thick-rimmed glasses spoke. She seemed totally untitillated by the whole affair. She must have been in this business a long time, Poppy realized. "It's not enough to be brought in for a kiss. The reader needs to see what that union would look like. If the chemistry described in the book blurb is really there."

"Chemistry?" There's no chemistry between us, Poppy wanted to argue. She glanced between the faces of the other women who were looking on. They were rapt and waiting.

There's no chemistry between us, right?

"I don't mind if you don't mind." William's voice was a low rumble. Poppy looked back at him sharply. By giving his consent to continue, he had highlighted her own uncertainty to the crowded room.

"I don't mind at all," she said. "Kiss me all you want."

"All right. I will."

Another long minute passed between them. Then the hand on her scalp tightened in resolution, and William leaned in. Poppy's heart raced as he placed a quick peck on her lips and withdrew. Disappointment flooded her, much more bitter than the adrenaline she had been feeling seconds earlier.

"Oh nooo. Not like that. You can't kiss her like that!" one of the authors moaned.

"We can't get a good photo unless you let it linger," another griped.

"After all that build-up, you can't just peck at her like a chicken!"

Poppy covered her mouth with her hand to hide her smile as William's eyes narrowed. "It helps if you remember that they're writers," she whispered between her fingers.

William's scowl deepened. "How could I forget?"

"They like deploying metaphors. Don't take it personally."

"She's a breathtakingly beautiful woman!" one of the other authors called. "How can you look at her and be satisfied with something that…uninspired?"

"I never said anything about being satisfied," William growled below his breath. Their bodies were pressed so closely together that Poppy could feel his voice reverberating in his chest through her own. "I find this whole exercise unsatisfactory. And ridiculous."

"Shhh," Poppy hissed. The women were absorbed in their work, and she didn't want William's crankiness to throw cold water on the creative process. Then again, cold water might not be a bad idea. Her skin felt fever-hot. It must have only been her imagination; she was certain William was the kind of man to keep the temperature in his office strictly regulated. "What is this ridiculous desk for, if not to kiss a woman up against? Just pretend I'm someone you like if it makes it easier for you."

He studied her. They were so close she could see his eyes weren't as impenetrable as she had first imagined; in fact, they weren't even brown, but a dark meridian blue.

"I've never enjoyed taking what was easy," William murmured. His face leaned in toward her, and…

Poppy burst out laughing. It was a nervous giggle, and she was mortified in the aftermath—she hadn't interrupted a kiss like that since high school—but it was enough to halt the proceedings yet again. William's expression froze. His eyes caught fire, and the arms around her constricted like hot bands. Poppy opened her mouth to offer up an apology.

But suddenly there was no more room in her mouth for an apology, or words—there was barely enough room for her own tongue and teeth as William swooped in and captured her lips in a devastating kiss. Poppy had experienced only the barest taste of him before when he had kissed her, efficiently and stiffly, aware all the while of their audience; now, she was subsumed by him. He kissed her hard enough to force the small of her back up against his desk, but Poppy ignored the bite of the beast beneath her. They were both being conquered in that moment. Her hand came up to grip the back of William's neck as he pressed in, and her feet came up off the floor. He moved between her legs and pinned her against the desk. She couldn't break away if she wanted to, and boy, did she not want to. Escaping from William Jameson was the furthest thing from her mind. His mouth possessed the whole of her attention; his tongue swept the seam of her lips; his insistence could not be ignored…

Was she imagining things, or was the kiss accompanied by cheering and applause?

When William pulled away, he wore a look of triumph on his face. Poppy, delightfully dazed beneath him, noticed the light flush in his cheeks and disheveled hair. Maybe his victory wasn't as complete as he would like to think.

The authors hooted and hollered. This time, Poppy didn't apologize for her sheepish laugh. She tucked a stray strand of hair back behind her ear and allowed William to help her to her feet. "See? That wasn't so bad." She wished she didn't sound so out of breath.

"Not bad at all," William agreed. His hands lingered on her waist, and Poppy decided not to call attention to them. The authors descended, chattering excitedly; the whole meeting had been unorthodox from start to finish, but there was no lack of inspiration and activity in the room. It was exactly the sort of atmosphere Poppy had hoped to instigate, but she hadn't expected it to come at the price of a kiss. She sensed William's eyes on her; when she glanced up, he looked away, his attention conveniently called to one of the enthusiastic writers on his left. Poppy smiled to herself and stroked a hand along the glossy wood surface beneath her.

Maybe she could learn to love this damn desk, after all.