Holden is outside the bathroom door when I emerge, concern creased on his forehead. He tilts his head. “You good?”

I nod.

“Are you sure? Because you’re quite pale.” Heat rushes to my cheeks, and Holden gives a slight smile. “Ah, there she is.” He puts his hand on my shoulder and guides me away from the boardroom, to his office. “Let’s take a bit of a break.”

“I suppose I could use a few minutes to regroup,” I murmur. I’m definitely light headed but I think it’s more the result of Holden’s gentle touch. I’m shocked by how good it feels.

He guides me to the oversized leather couch in the corner of the room, and props up a pillow.

“Here, lie down. I’ll get you a water.”

Every cell in my body buzzes with electricity. Holden’s tenderness confuses me, but it also elicits an uncharacteristic thrill. I settle onto the couch, and follow his movements as he roots through the cupboards in what appears to be a well-stocked bar. Weird how I didn’t notice it when I was in his office before.

Granted, I had other things on my mind.

“How about something other than water?” he says, after withdrawing a large bottle of whiskey. “This should settle your stomach.”

I grimace. “Or make me puke.”

Hard liquor and I share an uncomfortable history. Back in high school, I drank vodka before succumbing to my first kiss, a messy, slobbery ordeal that resulted in a disappointing end to what would have been a three-year crush. A few months later, I took two tequila shots before allowing Tommy Gunn to stick his hands down my pants. The thought of his fat fingers groping blindly at my then-virgin pussy makes me shudder even today.

My mother calls those my rebellious years. “Acting out” in the wake of so much tragedy. That’s the trouble with being an only child—Mom didn’t make friends after we left Maine and I never brought mine to the house, so she didn’t have a benchmark for how “normal teens” act. How ironic that my behavior since meeting Holden Quinn is more erratic, more rebellious, than those random incidents Mom seems stuck on.

“The cleaning staff doesn’t come until tomorrow,” Holden says, with an ever-so-slight smirk. “So, let’s avoid vomit, shall we? How about coffee?”

I shake my head. “I’m good.”

Holden runs a dishrag under the bar sink, wrings it out, and folds it three times. How very precise. And considerate, I think, as he presses the cool compress to my clammy forehead. I flinch at first and then relax into the role of victim.

His voice lowers. “I’ve upset you.”

My guilt intensifies, thrumming through my blood like an adrenaline rush. “I knew what I was getting into when I requested the interview.” With respect to the incident, at least. I didn’t anticipate a more personal—sexual—connection with Holden, and it’s put me a bit off kilter.

“I could have been less abrupt.” He brushes a strand of hair away from the side of my face. “Even now, I still get…animated…when I talk about that day. His expression darkens. “The memories are difficult.”

Fresh emotion clogs up the back of my throat. “I can’t imagine how painful it must be.”

I’ve been so caught up in my quest for the truth that I almost forgot that Holden is a victim too. His fingers thread through my hair, almost absentmindedly, and I can’t help but wonder what’s going through his mind.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

He chuckles. “I charge quite a bit more than that.”

I smile shyly. “Ah, the truth comes out. That’s really how you became a billionaire.”

He cups my face in his palm, and slides a thumb across my cheek. “Bravo, Miss Faber. Even the most diligent reporters have not uncovered that deep, dark secret.” He leans forward and whispers, “I’ll have to ask you to keep it to yourself.”

“Or…?” I grin mischievously, my stomach and head beginning to sort themselves.

“I’m sure I’ll think of an appropriate consequence,” he says, with a sexy wink.

It’s so damn easy to get caught up in the moment, to pretend that this banter is as routine as morning coffee. But in the back of my mind, I’m reminded of my mission, of Holden’s proposal, and I know I can’t procrastinate another minute.

“I’m ready to continue our discussion,” I say, with reluctance. The nausea in my gut has long since been replaced with a different kind of flutter, and staying on this couch, with Holden gingerly nursing me back to health, isn’t going to cure me—if anything, that particular condition will get worse. “If that’s alright with you.”

Holden’s jaw tenses. “It isn’t.”

Confused, I struggle to sit upright. “I’m fine. Honest.” I fold my hands in my lap and smile. “I appreciate your concern, but I promise, I’m well enough to keep going. No more puking threats.” I hold up two fingers. “Scouts honor.”

Clearly I’m babbling. I bite my lip to stop from saying more. Desperation may cause Holden to suspect my true intentions, and I’m far from ready to have that discussion. I need to keep my emotions in check—not just about the incident, but about Holden too—or I risk tipping my hand, and undoubtedly scaring him away.

“We can’t continue the interview, because your hour is up.”

My eyes widen. “You’re kidding, right?”

His expression tells me he isn’t.

A spike of anger rockets through me. “Not fair. I was in no condition to carry on our discussion.”

“I agree,” Holden says, coolly. “Which is why I encouraged you to rest.”

“Had I known the clock was ticking, I would have bypassed your concern.” Sarcasm oozing from between my lips, disguising my panic. How dare he? “You didn’t give me that option.”

He stands and smooths his hands over his slacks, fastens the top button of his suit jacket, and twists his tie into place. Methodical. Robotic. Cold. “One always has a choice, Miss Faber,” he says. Too stunned by the change in his demeanor, I’m unable to offer a response. “We had a deal,” he continues. “One hour.”

My lips curl in distaste. “No wiggle room in that iron clad agreement of yours, I see.” I keep my gaze trained on him, even though I’m fighting back tears. My bottom lip trembles. “You can’t show an ounce of mercy, not even this once?”

“Do you know why I’m successful, Miss Faber?”

My breath comes out in an exaggerated huff. “Because you charge a ridiculous amount for your thoughts.”

“Because I don’t negotiate.” He walks to the bar and pours himself a finger of whiskey. My gaze lingers on his ass, even now. And to my shock, I find myself craving a shot too. Anything to take off the edge off the white anger simmering just under my skin. He slugs back the liquid and slams the glass down on the countertop. “I’ve already allowed for lenience,” he says, silently reminding me of the fact that I agreed to this stupid proposal almost two hours past his deadline. “Now, I’ve upheld my end of the deal—one question, which you asked, and one hour, which we’ve already gone over.” His eyes bore into me. “It’s your move, Miss Faber.”

My mouth goes dry. “My move?”

He flicks his tongue over his bottom lip and damn if my traitorous pussy doesn’t clench with immediate response. I want to ignore it, focus on his unreasonable demands, my frustration, but my body has other ideas.

I lift my chin. “You cheated.”

He stares at me with undisguised hunger. “I am many things, but I assure you, a cheater is not one of them.”

I fold my arms across my chest in a lame act of indignant denial. “And if I refuse? Claim I’m too sick? Too distraught?”

His eyebrows slant. “You wouldn’t…”

“I might.” Some of my confidence slips. “This isn’t fair, Mr. Quinn. On principle, I won’t honor the agreement.”

“On principle?” Holden’s eyes flash, and his voice goes dangerously low. “The hell you won’t.”