“What happened in my office yesterday must not happen again,” Mason says.

My mind had begun wandering, imagining exotic adventures in foreign countries. Rock climbing in Bangladesh. Scuba diving among the sharks in Australia. Kayaking through the canals in Venice. His words yank me out of my fantasy world, leaving me with an inexplicable sense of yearning.

“That kind of impulsiveness is inexcusable,” he continues. “And I’ve determined that it was a one-time event and served its purpose.” Our eyes meet, and in his, I find determination. My stomach twists with unexpected disappointment.

I swallow hard, fighting the urge to remind him that it was his loss of control, not mine, that sparked the incident. So maybe an apology from him is in order. But I’m not so stupid as to demand one. Instead, I just nod and try to smile. “Yes, Mr. Wood, I understand.”

He slugs back a finger of whiskey and sets the tumbler on the coffee table with a heavy thud. What’s left of his ice tinkles against the glass. “Going forward, I expect complete professionalism. Clear?”

Not exactly, but I don’t give voice to the response. I keep telling myself that I’ve done nothing wrong—I didn’t throw myself at Mason, certainly didn’t ask to be—

My mouth goes dry.

—spanked.

I should be relieved that Mason doesn’t expect that kind of behavior, that our encounter was nothing more than a mutual indiscretion. But my over active imagination has already begun to imagine other indiscretions. Some of them taking place on this very plane.

My clit throbs.

It’s utterly ridiculous, because I should be relieved by his announcement. Instead, I find myself tremendously disappointed.

I cross my legs, aware of Mason’s eyes on me, and avert my gaze. In my peripheral vision, I can see his jaw clench, and I wonder if he’s remembering what it felt like to tan my ass. Whether he’s wishing he could do it again.

And again.

A sour laugh bubbles at the back of my throat.

My schoolgirl fantasies are yet another indication of my inexperience, another mark on my naivety. A man like Mason Wood isn’t attracted to girls like me. Spanking me was just a demonstration of his control, punishment for—

For what, exactly?

I shake my head and try to let it go. “Can you at least tell me where we’re headed?”

The muscles on Mason’s neck tighten into thick cords. “The location isn’t important,” he says. “You’ll need to memorize the information in those files before the retreat begins.”

“Retreat?”

Mason leans back in his chair. “A business retreat,” he says. “My partners and I take a three-day working vacation each year at this time.”

I knew that, of course, from my research. But he’s got me thrown off my game and my thoughts are totally scattered. I glance around the plane, expecting to find Lucas and Holden sprawled out on one of the leather couches. Rumor has it that Holden’s a pilot—could the two of them be in the cockpit?

A tremor of nervous energy shakes through me. For three days, I’ll be stranded with the three savvy businessmen responsible for the groundbreaking success of Daylight Holdings. A company forged in friendship, and bonded by tragedy.

Be the sponge, Olivia.

Mason pours another shot of whiskey and slugs it back. He points to the bottle with question, and I shake my head. My stomach is already twisted in knots. Adding alcohol is a sure-fire way to induce vomit, and retching all over my new boss won’t earn me any additional points in professionalism.

“What would you like me to do for you these next few days?” I ask. And then to clarify further, I say, “Once I memorize all of the information you’ve given me, that is.”

Mason stares at me a long beat, expression unreadable. He leans forward and taps the stack of folders piled neatly on the table between us. “This is a year’s worth of transactions,” he says. “Read them very carefully.” He takes another pull of whiskey. “By morning, you’ll be expected to provide a broad overview of the company’s performance over the past twelve months.”

My chest tightens. “What specifically am I looking for?”

“Anything. And everything,” Mason says, his blue eyes turning to ice. “Market patterns. Indicators we may have missed that gave our competitors an advantage, however subtle.”

My lips part. “But that kind of analysis could take forever.”

Mason glances at his watch. “You’ve got seven hours.”

It’s not enough time. My eyes flit to the stack of folders, at least a foot high, and the hair on the back of my neck prickles. There must be a thousand pages of paper or more. “You’ve asked the impossible.”

Annoyance flashes in Mason’s eyes and I recoil. “Perhaps I’ve misjudged you, then.”

I bite my lip.

“You demanded an opportunity to prove to me that you have what it takes to make it as a day trader,” he says. I shift in my seat, uncomfortable under pressure. “Memorize the files, Miss Landers.” He leans in close, his breath warm across my cheek. “Impress me.”