It took an endless moment to realize Cross and I were stil alone in the room, that the voice I’d heard had come through a speaker. Cross stood at the far end of the sofa, flushed and scowling, his chest heaving. His tie was loosened and the fly of his slacks strained against a very impressive erection.

I had a nightmare vision in my head of what I must look like. And I was late getting back to work.

“Christ.” He shoved both hands through his hair. “It’s the middle of the fucking day. In my goddamn fucking office!”

I got to my feet and tried to straighten my appearance.

“Here.” He came to me, yanking my skirt up again.

Furious at what I’d almost let happen when I should be at work, I smacked at his hands. “Stop it. Leave me alone.”

“Shut up, Eva,” he said grimly, catching the hem of my black silk blouse and tugging it into place, adjusting it so that the buttons once again formed a straight row between my breasts. Then he pul ed down my skirt, smoothing it with calm, expert hands. “Fix your ponytail.”

Cross retrieved his coat, shrugging into it before adjusting his tie. We reached the door at the same time and when I crouched to fetch my purse, he lowered with me.

He caught my chin, forcing me to look at him. “Hey,” he said softly. “You okay?”

My throat burned. I was aroused and mad and thoroughly embarrassed. I’d never in my life lost my mind like that. And I hated that I’d done so with him, a man whose approach to sexual intimacy was so clinical it depressed me just thinking about it.

I jerked my chin away. “Do I look okay?”

“You look beautiful and fuckable. I want you so badly it hurts. I’m dangerously close to taking you back to the couch and making you come ’til you beg me to stop.”

“Can’t accuse you of being silver-tongued,” I muttered, aware that I wasn’t offended. In fact, the rawness of his hunger for me was a serious aphrodisiac. Clutching the strap of my purse, I stood on shaky legs. I needed to get away from him. And, when my workday was done, I needed to be alone with a big glass of wine.

Cross stood with me. “I’l be done by five. I’l come get you then.”

“No, you won’t. This doesn’t change anything.”

“The hel it doesn’t.”

“Don’t be arrogant, Cross. I lost my head for a second, but I stil don’t want what you want.” His fingers curled around the door handle. “Yes, you do. You just don’t want it the way I want to give it to you.

So, we’l revisit and revise.”

More business. Cut-and-dried. My spine stiffened.

I set my hand over his and yanked on the handle, ducking under his arm to squeeze out the door. His secretary shoved quickly to his feet, gaping, as did the woman and two men who were waiting for Cross. I heard him speak behind me.

“Scott wil show you into my office. I’l be just a moment.”

He caught me by reception, his arm crossing my lower back to grip my hip. Not wanting to make a scene, I waited until we were by the elevators to pul away.

He stood calmly and hit the cal button. “Five o’clock, Eva.”

I stared at the lighted button. “I’m busy.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

“I’m busy al weekend.”

Stepping in front of me, he asked tightly, “With whom?”

“That’s none of your—”

His hand covered my mouth. “Don’t. Tel me when, then. And before you say never, take a good look at me and tel me if you see a man who’s easily deterred.”

His face was hard, his gaze narrowed and determined. I shivered. I wasn’t sure I’d win a battle of wil s with Gideon Cross.

Swal owing, I waited until he lowered his hand and said, “I think we both need to cool off. Take a couple days to think.”

He persisted. “Monday after work.”

The elevator arrived and I stepped into it. Facing him, I countered, “Monday lunch.”

We’d have only an hour, a guaranteed escape.

Just before the doors closed, he said, “We’re going to happen, Eva.”

It sounded as much like a threat as a promise.

“Don’t sweat it, Eva,” Mark said, when I arrived at my desk nearly a quarter after two. “You didn’t miss anything. I had a late lunch with Mr. Leaman. I just barely got back myself.”

“Thank you.” No matter what he said, I stil felt terrible. My kick-ass Friday morning seemed to have happened days ago.

We worked steadily until five, discussing a fast-food client and contemplating some possible tweaks to ad copy for a chain of organic grocery stores.

“Talk about strange bedfel ows,” Mark had teased, not knowing how apt that was in regard to my personal life.

I’d just shut down my computer and was pul ing my purse out of the drawer when my phone rang. I glanced at the clock, saw it was exactly five, and considered ignoring the cal because I was technical y done for the day.

But since I was stil feeling shitty about my overly-long lunch, I considered it penance and answered.

“Mark Garrity’s—”