Dominic does exactly what he says he’s going to do—he gets me to the elevator, wishes me good luck on my first day, and is gone before the doors slide closed.

I have ten floors to get my heart back under control.

Dominic is not the kind of man I typically go for. The kind of man I go for—when I have time, which is not that often, not in this line of work—is gentle, sensitive, and…

Boring.

It’s like a shock when the word comes to me, like cold water trickling down my back. But that’s not right. They haven’t been boring, exactly…

I give my head a little shake, trying to clear the thoughts from my mind. Thankfully the elevator doesn’t make any more stops, and by the time the doors open on the tenth floor, I’ve almost managed to make myself forget his blue eyes, clear like tropical water, the strong, sexy cut of his jaw, covered with stubble that looks meticulously maintained and rugged at the same time, the way his expensive custom-designed suit moved with a body that I’m absolutely positive is powerfully muscled and chiseled like his jaw. I had to pretend to be disgusted at his comment, pretend it offended me. I’ll never be able to admit that the sound of his husky voice sent tremors of desire pivoting to my core.

I’ve almost forgotten.

Almost.

There’s a little reception area immediately off the elevator, and I step toward the desk, taking in a deep breath to steady myself.

The woman sitting behind the desk looks me up and down, and a wave of dark hair cascades over my face. The jolt I got when I put my hand in the crook of Dominic Wilder’s arm rendered me pretty much senseless on the elevator ride, and now I feel like a living fun-house mirror. My hair must be a mess from the rain, and I’ve got an enormous half-empty box of doughnuts tucked under my arm. I’m carrying my heels in my other hand. And—shit—there’s got to be jelly filling staining my white shirt. About the only thing I did was to undo the raincoat, which has left my disheveled appearance entirely exposed to the woman behind the desk, who looks like she stepped off a runway at New York Fashion Week.

This is not the way I was hoping to start my time here. Not at all.

I stand up as straight as I can, trying to will away the color from my cheeks. “I’m Vivienne Davis,” I say, my voice sounding a hundred times more confident than I feel. Play the part, Viv. No other choice now. “It’s my first day.”

She raises her eyebrows, and I can practically hear what she’s thinking. It’s your first day, and you couldn’t even come in with a clean blouse? But when she answers, her voice is cool and professional, even helpful. “Why don’t I show you to the restroom before I take you back to meet Ms. Lillianfield?”

This receptionist might be a judgmental bitch, but at least she keeps it mostly to herself. I can’t help but feel grateful. “That would be great.”

She rises gracefully from the chair and holds out her hands. “I can take that, if you’d like.”

“They’re for everyone to share,” I say as I awkwardly shuffle the box into a more normal position and place it into her hands. “There used to be more, but I fell on the sidewalk, and then there was a car—” What the hell is happening to me? I never babble like this, and I shut my mouth before Ms. Runway Receptionist actually rolls her eyes. She slides the box onto the surface of her desk and comes around to where I’m standing, cocking her head to one side.

“The restroom is this way.” Of course, her outfit is also flawless—a navy skirt suit with a champagne-colored shell underneath, matching stilettos, and a delicate silver necklace that hangs gently around her perfect neck—and I look like a clown.

She steps away, leading me to one side of the reception area and down a discreet hallway, one tall door on either side. We’re almost to the door when she says, over her shoulder, “I’m Portia, by the way. Welcome to Wilder Enterprises.”

“Thank you. It’s nice to meet you.”

She nods like she’s a queen, and naturally it’s nice to meet her, and then she pauses in front of one of the doors. “The restroom is in here. I’ll be back at my desk when you’re ready.”

Five minutes later, I emerge with at least some of the jelly doughnut remnants dabbed away from my shirt, my hair in some semblance of order, and looking a little bit less like a ragamuffin. My knee still throbs painfully from where I smashed into the concrete—my pantyhose are ruined—but at least I’m not actively bleeding. I’ve also broken off the other heel by wrenching it clean off the shoe. My heels are now flats, but at least they’re the same height.

Portia gives a little nod of approval, and I’m almost overcome by the urge to tell her that I’m an undercover agent, damn it, and I far outrank her. But I smile when she says, “Ms. Lillianfield is ready for you,” and follow her back past some groupings of cubicles to a glassed-in office where a woman with black hair scraped tightly into a bun at the nape of her neck frowns at me from where she’s sitting behind her desk, her back straight and her expression stern. Portia is gone before I know it.

“Ms. Davis,” she says, standing up and extending her hand. I give it a confident shake as her eyes travel down the length of my shirt. It’s not like I could get all the jelly filling off, and she clearly notices it. “I take it you had some difficulties this morning.”

I smile and shake my head, trying to project an aura of assurance even though I’m off-balance, even though the memories of meeting Dominic Wilder are somehow still throwing me for a loop. “A little. I brought in doughnuts for everyone, but some of them became casualties of the weather when I had an…um…accident on the sidewalk.”

Ms. Lillianfield frowns. “How nice of you.” Her tone says anything but.

Okay—time to move on from the small talk, because clearly she’s not going to be won over by my natural charm. “I’m very excited to get started.” I resist the urge to cover up the jelly stain on my shirt with my hands, resist the urge to turn around and walk back out of here and tell my superior that this job is a disaster already and that nothing is going according to plan.

I’m going to see this through if it’s the last thing I do. I am not going to lose my standing in the department over a few lost doughnuts and a banged-up knee. I’m not even going to lose it over a chance encounter with the owner of the company. It’s not like I’ll be seeing him much while I’m here, a thought that gives me an unexpected pang of disappointment.

“Of course.” Ms. Lillianfield gestures toward the door. “I’ll show you to your desk, and Marie can help you get up to speed.”

I get my very own cubicle, and Ms. Lillianfield gives me a cursory rundown of the computer system, the items in the supply cabinet on the other side of the space, and the hours I’m supposed to be here—in a shocking twist, it’s from nine to five—and then she turns and goes back to her office with a sniff.

I can hardly help letting my shoulders sag the second she’s gone, but the relief only lasts a moment.

“Oh, my God, it’s you!” The chirping voice belongs to a red-headed woman poking her head around the side of the next cubicle, and my gut goes cold. Is my cover already blown?

“It’s me,” I say lamely, covering it with a laugh. “Wait—do we know each other?”

“I’m Marie!” Her brown eyes dance with delight. “I saw you downstairs. You’re the new girl?”

“Ha—yes.” Oh, thank God.

But Marie isn’t done. “I saw you with Mr. Wilder.” Her voice is low, confidential, bursting with curiosity. “How did you pull that off?”

My entire body goes hot at the thought of him, of his eyes on me, of his hands on me. “My name’s Vivienne,” I say, giving her a pointed look and a little grin.

She covers her mouth with both hands. “I’m so sorry. I’m—” Marie fans herself. “Let’s get started, okay? You can tell me about Mr. Wilder later.”

She launches into an energetic tour of the scheduling system we’re going to use to assist the executives, and I follow along, my heart beating hard in my chest.

Forget him, I tell myself.

No. No. No, beats my heart.