“Ms. Bancroft, why are you always so cold?”
April looked up from the ever-changing constellation of dates and appointments and blinked at her boss, Mads Durkheim. “What? I’m not cold.”
“How many layers are you wearing?”
“Three.”
“Does that include the blanket?”
She looked down at the afghan her grandmother had knitted for her over twenty years ago. It was the perfect size for her lap and she took it everywhere with her. It might be strange for a grown woman to have a security blanket, but she was, in fact, always cold.
“No. I sit under that vent, and it’s always on.”
He held his hand up to the vent. “It feels fine to me. Here, feel how warm I am.” He turned, swinging his bare arm in front of her face so she could touch him, as instructed. She registered the heat—against her cold fingers he felt like a living fire—but that wasn’t all she noticed. His smooth skin covered thick muscle, and the tendons twitched under her brief touch. She pulled her hand away quickly.
“You’re very…” She swallowed the rasp out of her voice. “Warm.”
“And your fingers are like ice! You really are cold, aren’t you? Here, let me show you something.”
He leaned over her to reach for the computer mouse, minimizing her screen and double clicking on another icon. Misty, the woman who had trained her to be Mads’ personal assistant, had warned that that program accessed the climate control for the entire building. “Never touch that,” she’d said. “He’s very particular.”
“Look, just drag this here. Then you can adjust the temperature.” He demonstrated by raising it from 67 degrees to a more toasty and tolerable 78. “Better?”
Better? How could she even begin to notice when the scent of his skin was filling her head? Her boss was a very attractive man—a fact she had done her best to ignore in the eight weeks since he hired her as his personal assistant—and he smelled very, very good. He wasn’t quite touching her back, but she could still feel the heat coming from his body, and if she leaned back just a little—less than an inch—she would feel the solid muscle of his chest.
“Well?”
She glanced upward to meet his golden-green eyes and had to look away just as quickly. “Much better, thank you. But won’t it be too hot for you?”
“No, my office is set to my personal preference.” He straightened and the heat disappeared—much to her disappointment. “Reschedule all my meetings for the next three days.”
“Reschedule…?”
“Yes, I’m going to Los Angeles.”
April frowned and checked the calendar. “On business?”
“Yes, and you’ll be accompanying me. We’ll be flying out tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll be forwarding the itinerary. Make sure to pack a cocktail dress. We’ll be going to at least one event.”
A cocktail dress? She didn’t even own a dress, much less one for an event in Los Angeles. Her mind raced for an excuse—any excuse—to get her out of the affair, if not the whole trip, but she came up with nothing. There was nothing holding her in town, and she couldn’t explain to him that girls her size didn’t have cocktail dresses lying around. At least he paid her well enough to go buy one.
“And April?”
“Yes?”
“One more thing.” He leaned in close—so close that she could see the strands of golden-blond hair in his beard and eyebrows—and flared his nostrils. “What is that scent?”
“Scent?”
“What are you wearing? I was thinking of buying a new scent for my.... mother.”
“It’s just my body wash. Or maybe the orange I had for breakfast?”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “Well, it’s an intoxicating combination.” He straightened again, and she hoped he didn’t notice the sudden flush on her cheeks or the way her pulse quickened. Her body betrayed her every time he stood within touching distance. Apparently, she needed more than eight weeks to get that under control. “I’m going to the club, I’ll be back this afternoon.”
“Would you like me to forward your messages?”
“Only if it’s urgent.”
She didn’t release her breath until the door closed behind him. Turning her attention back to the calendar, she tried to forget the texture of his skin, the smell of sandalwood and pine that always surrounded him, the color of his eyes—green with the brightest flecks of gold. She tried to forget everything except the task at hand—the impossible task at hand. Mads was a very busy man, and his schedule was a careful balancing act without surprise meetings taking them out of town.
The thought of going out of town made her stomach flutter. He’d warned her at the beginning of her interview that the job would require frequent travel. She’d quickly assured him that travel would not be a problem—she didn’t even have a plant in her small apartment. But this was the first trip since he hired her. How long would they be gone? What should she pack? Where were they going? Would they be alone together?
“That doesn’t matter,” she muttered, squaring her shoulders. She had a job to do. Three days of meetings were not going to reschedule themselves.