After I send Blake off, I try to keep myself busy, which luckily isn’t hard. I return a couple of phone calls, catch up on some emails, and finally review the vendor contracts from the last six months, the ones I’d been trying desperately to get Georgia to pull together. At least Blake had managed to get me the right files.

No matter what I do, no matter how I try to keep my hands busy and my mind occupied, Blake flits continually through my thoughts. Through my veins.

I’d had no intention initially of getting her to shop for my mother’s birthday gift. I was planning to do it myself after work tonight. But I needed something that would keep her out of the office for as long as possible. The more time she spends here, the more time I spend being able to hear her and see her and feel her out there, flitting around the office or clacking away at the keyboard, the worse this gets for me.

And it’s already bad.

Really bad.

Because Blake Holloway has been performing a non-stop pornographic video in my head since the day she waltzed into my office with her muffin and her syrupy sweet coffee and her exquisitely kissable lips. I can’t keep the thoughts at bay, no matter how hard I try to push them out. That blonde bombshell has wedged herself in, and now she’s like a craving I can’t shake. Substitutes won’t do. I want the real thing. I want Blake.

And I can’t have her. I know that. Ed’s warning echoes through my mind every time I even think of crossing the line with her.

But why does she have to make it so fucking difficult? I thought last week’s flouncy little dresses were bad, but this week she’s got some sexy librarian thing going on. What man wouldn’t want to yank that fat bun out of her hair, wouldn’t want to rip at the buttons of that tight little white shirt? Jesus. I’m not made of stone here.

That’s why I’d sent her out of the office. Again. Because I figured that if I can’t see her, if she isn’t in the same room as me, I could relax. But her scent still lingers — vanilla and something that smells sweet and flowery and … pink. I know pink’s not a smell, but it’s what Blake makes me think of.

That smell, and the lustful thoughts that come with it, are not making it easy for me to concentrate on work.

When my phone rings, I’m grateful for another opportunity to take my mind off my new assistant. I snatch up the receiver and bark out a greeting. Then stop long enough to listen to the caller on the other end.

My hands clench into fists as I listen. “She did what?” I bellow. The man on the other end of the line starts to explain, but I’ve already dropped the phone and am halfway across the office before he can finish.

Ten minutes later, I’m striding through the glass doors of the Barneys on Madison Avenue. Bentley Charles, the head of the store’s security and loss prevention department, is waiting there for me.

“Mr. Cartwright,” he says in surprise. His neck colors. “I wasn’t expecting to see you. I assumed you’d send someone down to deal with this.”

I shake my head, already striding through the store and forcing him to keep up with me. “No. The girl you picked up is my personal assistant. I’ll deal with this myself. Where is she?”

I don’t mention the fact that I have to see her for myself. There are about thirty different emotions coursing through my body right now — anger, disbelief, and even maybe a tiny bit of something like awe.

“We’re detaining her downstairs,” he says, scrambling to keep up with my long strides. “We didn’t want to release her until you arrived, in case there was a mistake.”

I shake my head. I want to believe there was indeed a mistake, but right now, I don’t know what to think. Bentley had called me after he’d glimpsed Blake’s security badge. I knew him from some of our early merchandising meetings — Cartwright Diamonds had a huge display here at the store, and you don’t dump millions of dollars of inventory into a retail store without having a good understanding of their loss prevention strategies.

Bentley subtly moves ahead of me and leads me through the store to the lower basement where no one ever goes. No one besides store employees, that is. And of course … alleged shoplifters. Jesus Christ.

I still can’t figure out what the fuck went wrong. I had sent Blake out to do a simple errand. Okay, maybe not so simple. My mother is impossible to buy for, even if you know her as well as I do. I’m sure Blake was cursing my name while she tried to pick out a gift. But how do you go from there to getting arrested for shoplifting from Barneys?

I push my hands through my thick hair in irritation. “Tell me again what happened.”

Bentley shakes his head. “I’m not entirely sure. One of my guys picked her up. Guess she was leaving the store with a pair of gloves in her hands.”

“It has to be a mistake.” I admit I don’t know Muffin Girl all that well, but I definitely hadn’t pegged her as the sticky fingers type.

“Could be.” He shrugs. “That’s why I called you. She was waving her credit card around — one of your company cards — swearing that she was here on business and trying to pay for the gloves. But we have a policy to notify police about any suspected shoplifters. So that’s what my guys did.”

Fuck. “The police are here?”

“Not yet.” His voice is low, and I appreciate the discretion as we walk through the store. “I wanted to give you a chance to sort things out. It’s also possible the credit card was stolen, and you’ll want to press charges of your own.”

Well, hell. That idea hadn’t even occurred to me. I clench my fists as we ride the elevators down. Maybe it’s not even Blake down there. Maybe she got mugged while she was out, and now she’s lying in an alley somewhere …

My heart thuds an angry, frantic rhythm. Just what the hell am I going to find down there?

But it turns out that what I find is … basically what you’d expect. It’s Blake in there, alright, and she’s got one hand cuffed to a chair. But instead of sitting, as I’m sure the security guard intended, she’s standing in front of him, using her free hand to scroll through her phone.

“I’m a good person,” she’s saying to him. “Look.”

She holds her phone up to his face, forcing him to look at the screen. How she’s able to force him to do anything when she’s the one currently restrained is beyond me. I chalk it up to whatever force it was that made me hire her in the first place, against my better judgement.

“Look,” she says again. The guard looks extremely uncomfortable, attempting to avert his eyes from the screen. “That’s me and my sisters volunteering at a community garden. My sister’s on the board of directors, you know. And look, this is me with my parents at their twenty-fifth anniversary party. I come from a good family. Look how wholesome we are! Do those look like the parents of a shoplifter?”

She stares at him imploringly, waiting for him to answer. He’s a big, beefy guy, at least six feet and probably edging up on three hundred pounds, but in front of Blake, he seems to cower like a cartoon chipmunk.

Part of me wants to just stand there and watch the show, because I’m pretty sure that given another ten minutes, Blake would be waltzing out the door all on her own. But the sight of her in those handcuffs is doing something funny to my lungs. Not to mention my dick. Definitely my dick.

“What’s going on here?” My bellow startles both Blake and the security guard. For the first time, Blake actually looks panicked. Not of the predicament she’s in, but of … me. Her lips part and her tongue darts out nervously, and that definitely does something to my dick, too.

“Logan,” she says, then, “Fuck. I mean, Mr. Cartwright. I’m so sorry. I can explain everything. This is just a huge misunderstanding.” She glares at the security guard, who actually looks chagrined. Chipmunk.

“You can explain later,” I tell her. “Let’s go.”

She holds up her arm limply, demonstrating to me that she’s currently still chained to the chair. As if I need reminding.

“Let her go,” I tell the security guard. He frowns at me, but then he sees the icy glare Blake is giving him. The beefy man fumbles with the key, but he unlocks the handcuffs, freeing Blake.

I grab her other arm, my fingers digging into her flesh, and pull her towards me. She tumbles against my chest. Her breath hitches.

Mine does, too. “Let’s go,” I growl, tugging her not so-gently towards the door. I give Bentley a nod, then pull Blake back to the elevator. I don’t say a word to her. Not in the elevator, not when we walk through the store, not when I throw open the door of my car and watch her slide in. I jog around to the other side and climb in beside her. I tap once on the glass, letting my driver know we’re done.

Blake hasn’t said anything. She doesn’t look quite as terrified as she did when I first walked into the security room, but she doesn’t look totally sure of herself, either. As the car pulls back into traffic, she turns to me.

“I can explain everything,” she blurts.

“I’m not interested in explanations.”

“Right.” Her mouth snaps closed, and now she looks concerned again. She gnaws at her bottom lip, and my eyes are drawn to the motion, to the way her teeth press into her perfect pink pout. Despite her ordeal, her lips are still glossed, and I can tell by her eyes that she hasn’t shed a single tear. Most women would be a sobbing mess right now, but Blake looks mildly nervous at best.

I decide to take the opportunity to make her sweat a little. Why not? She’s been making me sweat since she first walked into my office. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I was thinking about what to get your mother for a birthday gift,” she retorts. “And for your information, I had a great idea. That’s why I was rushing out. Except I forgot I was holding those stupid gloves, and I accidentally kind of, sort of, maybe walked out of the store with them.”

“Kind of, sort of, maybe?”

She juts her chin out. “Fine. I did walk out with them. Happy?”

“Not really, no. When you’re out doing an errand for me, I expect you to be professional. At the very least, I expect you to obey the rule of law.”

“I wasn’t breaking the law,” she pouts, and I actually almost laugh. When was the last time I did that?

“Blake, you literally stole a pair of gloves. That’s the very definition of breaking the law.”

“Not if it was an accident.”

“Not a defense,” I point out. “At least as far as the courts are concerned.”

She rolls her eyes, as if the law doesn’t apply to her. Hell, maybe it doesn’t.

In the time we’ve been talking, the space between us seems to have shrunk. I can see her chest rising and falling under the white button-down shirt she’s wearing. The one I’ve been daydreaming of peeling off her shoulders ever since she first walked into the office this morning. An entire half day of resisting her has worn down my defenses. Without thinking, I let my fingers trail up the line of buttons, starting at the waist of her skirt and moving up, until my thumb is stroking the soft hollow of her throat.

Blake sucks in a breath, and the way her lips part destroys the last bit of inner strength I might have possessed. My hand slides from her throat to her hair, and I pull her roughly to me. I expect her to react in surprise, but instead she launches herself into my arms, like she’s been waiting for just this invitation.

I kiss her. God damn, do I kiss her. I kiss her like I’ve never kissed anyone. I kiss her like she’s air and I’m a drowning man. And I am. I’ve been drowning for years now.

Blake’s lips are the softest lips. Her taste is the sweetest taste. Everything about her is fucking perfect.

And I destroy her.

I kiss her like I want to break her. Like I’m going to break her.

In that moment, I want to ruin her. I want to destroy everything about her that’s pretty and sweet and innocent.

Except ... Blake doesn’t fold. Not under the weight of my kiss, not under the rough thread of my fingers through her hair. She pushes right back. She takes everything I give her, and she transforms it somehow, into something just as pure and sweet as she is.

I pull away from the kiss, breathless and knowing only one thing for certain.

I will sleep with Blake Holloway, no matter what my board might have to say about it.