Vivienne Davis is the last thing I need right now.

I don’t need any distractions. I definitely don’t need any women hijacking my brain, burning into my consciousness, and making my cock harder than steel and causing a tent pole in my pants. That kind of shit doesn’t end well for anyone, if my father is any indication. It might not have been my mother who distracted him into losing everything, but after that embarrassment—after she died—

I wanted to push her into the elevator and hit the emergency stop button, trapping us between floors long enough for me to take off her absurd raincoat, lick whatever sweetness is left from the pastry explosion off her neck, and then, when she’s panting breathlessly in my arms, let the elevator continue up past the eighth floor Executive Support department all the way up to the top floor, where I keep a private apartment for emergency purposes, like if I don’t feel like calling for a driver to go back to my penthouse on the Upper East Side, or one of my friends needs a place to crash…none of that shit matters. What matters is that there’s a bed up there, comfortable as hell, and I’d like to spread her out on it.

But I don’t do any of that.

I escort her coolly to the elevator, letting her look all around at the elegant lobby of the building for a few moments, and then I turn and walk away the second she steps into the elevator.

One more moment of looking at her and God knows what would have happened.

The side effects are inconvenient enough as it is. Around the corner from the regular elevator is a private elevator exclusively for my use. Wilder Enterprises isn’t the only company in the building—there’s no way, with the level of intelligence flashing in her eyes, that she couldn’t figure that out by herself—-but I didn’t mention that I own the entire space.

The private ride up to my office suite gives me enough time to adjust my erection.

I don’t have time to think about her—I need to focus on the upcoming meeting, which is scheduled to begin in ten minutes. I need status reports from everyone at the executive level, and I’m not willing to wait.

I let out my breath on a deep exhale. They were probably looking forward to the fact that I was going to be out of the office for the next three weeks, but I’m not at all sorry about ruining that for them.

I was supposed to be on vacation—my first real vacation since I took over the shattered remnants of Wilder Enterprises more than six years ago. In those days, they snickered behind my back. I know the kinds of things they said about me. Any son of Peyton Wilder is already a failure. He’s too young and stupid to manage a corporation of this size, with stakes this high. “These stakes” did prove to be a challenge—government contracts for cutting-edge energy technology, for one, and complicated relationships with a number of suppliers and partners around the world—but I gritted my teeth and pushed away everything else to repair the company.

And repair it I did.

No thanks to my father.

I push Vivienne Davis out of my mind, burying her as deep as I can.

Focus.

I was supposed to be on vacation, and I couldn’t hack it. Three days in, I ordered that my private plane be prepared to take me back home. The property in the British Virgin Islands is nice enough, but it turns out that if you work for six straight years, there’s not much waiting for you when you decide to take a break.

Not that I need anyone.

I don’t.

Wilder Enterprises is more than enough of a companion for me.

But two days of sailing, two days of sitting in the shade on the back porch watching the ocean sparkle for miles, was enough to make my skin itch, and I needed to get back to work. I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was all slipping out of my hands.

So I canceled the three-week hiatus from the office and came back.

To find Vivienne Wilder kneeling on the sidewalk in front of my building.

I clear my throat, even though there’s nobody in the elevator to hear me, and wrench my thoughts away from her.

She’s another woman working at my company. That’s all. Nothing more.

The elevator lets out a soft tone and the doors slide open to reveal a carpeted hallway leading into the study off the main room of my office. The carpet muffles the sound of my footsteps. The closer I get to the office, the taller I stand. When I pull open the door again, I’m back to being the Dominic Wilder who rules meetings with an iron fist, the Dominic Wilder who nobody would ever dare snicker at again—not if they wanted to keep their jobs, which they all desperately do. The men and women on my executive team are paid handsomely. They don’t want to lose all the benefits that Wilder Enterprises offers.

My personal secretary, Emily, is setting a tray down on the mahogany expanse of my desk when I open the door. She looks up at me with an even smile. “Welcome back, Mr. Wilder.”

“Thanks, Emily. Is everything in place for the meeting?”

“Yes, of course. The beverage selection is out—would you like me to call down for any other refreshments?” Emily is blonde, and she has a pleasantly round face that never lets anything show, and her poker-face is part of why I chose her to be my secretary. Everyone who represents me needs to have a good grasp on what they show to the world, and she does.

She happens to be the opposite of Vivienne Wilder.

Her name flashing across my mind again is followed by a spike of irritation. I cannot lose control of myself because of a chance meeting with some woman I’ll likely never see again.

But I could, because she’s down on the eighth floor, walking around right now with those emerald green eyes, that soft voice…

“No. No other refreshments.”

Emily gives a nod and goes back out the door to the reception area, and I sit down in the executive chair behind my desk—top of the line and meant to be imposing—and survey the tray.

She’s brought sparkling water and a bagel, meticulously spread with a thin layer of cream cheese, how I prefer. I sip the water, but I can’t bring myself to eat. All of my muscles are tensed, on edge.

I stand up and stroll over to the window with its view of Manhattan, obscured by the storm that’s still thundering through the city, filtering everything in shades of dark and darker, and wait for my mind to quiet itself.

It might be shitty outside, but down on the eighth floor, there’s a bright pink box of pastries and a woman with vivid green eyes, flashes of color to drown out the dreariness of the rain.