The Casanova (The Miles High Club Book 3)

I stare straight ahead. Shit . . . Don’t look at him, don’t look at him, don’t look at him.

“I didn’t know you used the gym at work?” he replies casually.

“Uh-huh.” I smile awkwardly as I keep my eyes straight to the front. What is the correct etiquette for saunas? I mean, I’ve been in here a few times already and never once have I had to concentrate on not looking at anyone.

The air is thick and hot and I find a piece of wood on the back of the door and stare at it. Elliot’s presence is all-consuming and taking up the small space; I can almost feel his nakedness under that towel from here.

Look straight ahead, I remind myself.

Don’t give him the satisfaction of drooling over his muscles. Dammit, why does he have to have them?

“How was your day?” he asks.

“Fine thanks.” I smile. “How was yours?”

“It just got a lot better, thank you.”

My brow furrows, what does that mean? Does that mean it got better when he got in here with me? I run my finger in a circle on the wood on the bench beside me, unsure what to say or where to look.

Or what to think.

My mind wants to go to a dark place and glance over at the golden muscles that I can feel taunting me from my peripheral vision.

But I won’t, I’ll continue to stare straight ahead.

“Do you come to the gym often?” I ask to try and fill the awkward void between us.

“Not often enough,” he says. “I have a gym at home and usually run there at night. But it’s late tonight and I know once I get there I will want to relax. I did a quick half an hour on the treadmill.”

I get a vision of him running, and the sweat dripping down his . . .

I grip the seat beneath me with white-knuckle force. “Oh” is all I can force out of my mouth. I glance down at myself: my black bikini top is covering all my bits.

Just.

What must he think?

“Do you always stare at the wall in the sauna?” Elliot asks.

“Well, it’s a square wooden box.” I shrug. “What am I supposed to look at?”

Elliot lets out a low chuckle and I bite my lip to hide my embarrassed smile. He knows that I’m avoiding looking at him with all my might.

“I don’t know, perhaps the person you’re talking to?” he replies.

I drag my eyes over to him.

“That’s better.” His eyes hold mine and then he gives me a slow, sexy smile.

I feel it in the pit of my stomach as the butterflies flutter.

What the hell is going on here? I swear to God he’s different, but I can’t put my finger on why.

If I didn’t know better, I would even say he’s more than friendly, perhaps a tad flirty. It’s like I’ve missed part of the conversation, but I’m really not sure what it is.

“Why would you like me to look at you, Elliot?” I ask as I focus on looking at his face.

It’s been a long time between drinks for me, and by drinks, I mean sex. I hate to admit it, but after seeing Elliot Miles in his black dinner suit last week, he’s run naked through my mind more than once.

Unable to help it, my gaze drops. Just as I suspected, a thick, broad chest with a scattering of dark hair, chiseled shoulders, and a fifty-pack of stomach muscles. His skin is a beautiful glowing tan. It makes the towel look fluorescent white.

We sit in silence for a few minutes. While he seems perfectly happy with the situation, I just want the earth to swallow me up so I can die. If I stand to leave he gets a full bird’s-eye view of my body.

Warts and all.

I mean, I have a towel, but it’s freaking tiny. Why did I have to be saving space in my damn gym bag?

He leans back and rests against the wall, his stomach muscles contracting as they catch the light.

Don’t look down, whatever you do, don’t fucking look down.

Well, this is just great. I come in here to relax, and instead get a bird’s-eye view of my asshole boss’s hot body.

“How long have you known Daniel?” he asks.

I frown, how does he even remember his name? “Not very long. Why do you ask?”

Elliot’s eyes hold mine and he gives a gentle shrug. “No reason. You said that you were just friends—”

I cut him off. “We are just friends.”

He raises an eyebrow. “He’s very touchy.”

“What? No he isn’t. That’s just his personality. He’s very affectionate.”

“I noticed,” he says dryly.

I stare at him as my brain malfunctions. “Why would you notice that?” I ask. “And more importantly, why would it matter to you?”

“It doesn’t,” he fires back way too fast. “Merely an observation.”

This is bizarre.

If I didn’t know better, I would say he’s a little jealous. But that’s ridiculous and we both know he couldn’t be.

I stare at him as I try to unravel the puzzle. “What’s your problem?” I ask.

“No problem,” he snaps. He stands in a rush, and for the first time I get a full view of his Adonis physique.

Jeez.

Elliot Miles may be a lot of things, but I can confirm with certainty that he looks good in a towel.

Not that I care, of course.

“So, I’ve been thinking about you,” Daniel says as we walk down the street on our way to pick up our Thai takeout, his arm linked through mine.

“What about me?” I ask.

“Don’t take offense at this.”

I roll my eyes. “When someone says don’t take offense, it means they’re going to say something offensive.”

He smiles and his eyes come over to me. “What were you like before your parents died?”

“What do you mean?”

“What were you like? Did you dress different? Did you have hobbies, were you social?”

I drop my head as we walk; nobody has ever asked me this before. “I guess I was . . .” My voice trails off as I shrug. “I don’t know.”

“Did you make an effort to look pretty every day?”

I think back and I nod. “Yes.”

“Were you focused on work all the time?”

I shake my head sadly. “Not in the least.”

“Did you have a boyfriend?”

“I did, but we broke up not long after they died.”

“And you haven’t had a long-term relationship since?”

I shrug.

“Baby.” He leans down and kisses my shoulder. “I’ve been wondering why someone as beautiful as you . . . acts the way you do.”

I frown in a question.

“You hide behind your grief, don’t you?”

My eyes well with tears and I drop my head. To hear someone say it out loud . . .

I haven’t been the same since that day, I know I haven’t.

I miss my parents, I miss their unconditional love. And their deaths shouldn’t be about me, but why did they leave me here all alone?

I get a lump in my throat.

I angrily wipe a lone tear away as it escapes. “Stop it, I don’t want to talk about this.”

Daniel kisses my shoulder again. “Okay. We won’t. I should have got the spring rolls, I’m fucking starving,” he says to change the subject. He squeezes my arm.

I fake a smile, and for the first time in a long time, I feel like someone gets me.

I twist the ring around my finger as I stare into space; I’m on the train and on my way home from work, and I’m trying to analyze the last few days. I’ve been busy and preoccupied, but for the life of me, I can’t stop thinking about what Daniel said about me hiding behind my grief.

Is that why I’m so anal at work, because the alternative is to fall apart and lose my job?

If I don’t look pretty, nobody will notice me . . . and my heart can never get broken again.

My mind is a clusterfuck of confusion and, through it all, I can’t get the vision of Elliot Miles in a towel out of my head.

I think about those muscles when I wake up, I think about them when I go to work, I think about them when I go to sleep. In the shower, in the gym, alone in bed . . . you name it, I’ve thunk it. And trust me, the things I’m thinking are going to get me sent straight to hell. Let’s just say that in my dreams Elliot Miles has spent a lot of time with his head between my legs, and boy is his tongue strong. I can almost see my arousal glistening on his lips as he looks up at me, feel the burn of his stubble on my inner thighs.

I keep fantasizing about being summoned to his office and getting bent over his desk while he has his wicked way with me, and it’s hot and hard and sweaty.

And it goes on and on and on.

Jeez . . . what the hell is going on with me lately?

And the worst part of it is, I don’t even like him. In fact, up until a week ago I would even say that I despised him.

But something is changing in me, and I don’t know what it is or how to explain it.

My hormones are having some kind of meltdown and I’ve turned into one of those people who think about sex all the time.

That white towel is a damn troublemaker.

We approach my stop and I stand and catch a glimpse of my reflection in the glass door, feel disappointed with what I see. I look dowdy, and so different to how I looked the other night at the ball.

Maybe it’s time.

I smile as I read the email from my place in bed, and I reply.

Dear Edgar,

Such a shame that you are not a cat person, you could have had a happy life filled with feline love.

I am fascinated though, what would you suggest I use for pick-up lines in the future?

As a dick fondler, your word is gospel.

I will wait for your reply with bated breath.

Pinkie Leroo

“Goodnight,” Daniel says as he pokes his head around the door. I look up from my computer.

“Night.”

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Ah.” I shrug bashfully. “Fooling around on the computer, what time did you get home?”

“Just now.”

“How did today go?”

He leans on the doorjamb. “Well, today I styled the biggest pain in the ass that I’ve ever met.”

“Why?”

“Tells me that she wants a complete new look but then hates everything I recommended and refuses to even try it on.”

I smile. “Is that common?”

“Sometimes. Usually with people who haven’t been styled before. Change is scary for some people.”

“I guess.”

“Not you though, you are a complete pro, look what you wore last week.”

I smile bashfully, and an idea comes to mind. I hesitate as I look over at my closet. “Maybe I should get you to help me buy some new clothes.”

“Well, well . . . well.”

“I mean.” I twist my fingers on my lap, embarrassed that I just said that out loud. “I mean . . .”

“You aren’t superficial.”

“Exactly.”

“But you just need a few pointers.”

“Yes.” I smile, and think for a moment. “What would you wear to work tomorrow if you were me?”

Daniel’s eyes hold mine. “If I wanted to . . . ?” His voice trails off.

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Look nice.”

“To impress a certain CEO?”

“No.” I scoff. “This has nothing to do with Elliot Miles.”

Daniel goes to my closet and begins to flick through the hangers. “Honey, it should.” I hear him rattling around in there. “Where are your skirts?”

I frown and sit up onto my knees. “What do you mean?”

“Where are your work skirts?”

“Oh.” I think for a moment. “I usually wear trousers.”

He pokes his head around the corner of my closet. “Every day?”

I nod.

“You wear flats too, don’t you?”

“Not . . . dead flat.” I shrug.

He rolls his eyes and goes back into the closet.

“Well, I just don’t see the point of being uncomfortable at work, you know?”

“No, I don’t, and looking dreary is what should make you uncomfortable, Kate,” he calls.

I roll my eyes.

A hanger with a shirt on it comes flying out and lands on the floor.

“What are you doing?” I frown.

“Cleaning out this shit-pile of a closet.”

“Now? It’s nine p.m.”

“I can’t find anything in here.”

“What are you talking about? It’s completely organized into sections,” I fire back.

“There’s the crap section and then there’s the really crap section,” he mutters dryly; another hanger comes flying out and lands on the floor. “What even is that?”

I listen to him rattle around in there, a pair of shoes comes out and then another few hangers. “What about shirts? Where are the shirts you wear?”

“For God’s sake, are you blind?” I get out of bed, go in, and point to the shirt section. “Right here.”

Daniel frowns as he looks through the choices. “This is it?”

“Aha.”

“I’m taking you shopping as a matter of urgency.”

“I can’t afford Givenchy, Daniel.” I sigh.

“You don’t have to spend a fortune to look good, Kate.” He curls his lip as if I’m clueless, then he holds up a shirt and looks at it and shakes his head. “Where the fuck did you get this?”

“College.”

His eyes widen. “You’ve had this shirt since college?”

I shrug. “I guess.”

“Dear God.” He keeps flicking through and then pulls out a long black dress; it’s fitted and sleeveless and in a casual material. He holds it up against my body. “This I can work with.” He thinks for a moment. “Actually, I have a bag of samples in my car, I think there’s a shirt in there.” He rushes from the room, I hear him run down the stairs and the front door open. Moments later I hear him take the stairs two at a time. I smile; this really is his calling, he just loves it.

Back in my room, he unzips the bag and pulls out a black shirt and smiles. “This.”

I frown as I stare at the shirt. “That?”

“Over the dress.”

I screw up my face. “What?”

He grabs my shoulders and turns me back toward my bed. “Just trust me, I’ve got this.”

I stare at myself in the elevator mirror. The image is unfamiliar. I’m wearing a long, black straight skirt that also moonlights as a dress. A black fitted button-up shirt over the top with a few buttons undone. A patent leather belt strategically placed to cinch in my waist, and black high heels from my cousin Mary’s wedding.

My blonde hair is out and styled and I’m wearing makeup, not a lot, but more than usual. I don’t dress up this much to go out, let alone for work.

And I don’t know why I’m choosing now to do it . . . but I have . . .

I let out a shaky exhale as the nerves dance in my stomach.

I’ve got a meeting with Elliot this morning and am on my way up to his office right now. I glance back up at my reflection and I cringe. Oh, this is stupid, what the hell am I doing? I hit the level sixteen button, I need to get off. I can’t see him looking like this.

He’ll know.

The elevator flies past level sixteen and I close my eyes. Shit.

The doors open on the top floor and I drop my shoulders as I step out and into the reception area, all black with a trendy black timber feature wall. Huge gold letters tell me exactly where I am, as if I could ever forget.

MILES MEDIA

The flooring is black marble and, like everything up here, it just feels expensive.

“Hello Kathryn.” Leonie smiles, she looks me up and down. “You look lovely today, dear.”

“Thanks.” I smile as I wish the earth would swallow me up. “I have something on . . . after work.” I make an excuse for looking the way I do.

“I love it, you should wear this every day.”

I fake a smile. Kill me fucking now.

“Just go through, he’s expecting you.”

I walk down the corridor and close my eyes. God, what was Daniel thinking making me wear this? It’s too over the top. I knock softly on Elliot’s door.

“Come in,” his deep voice calls.

I close my eyes as I steel myself and I push the door open. “Hello.”

Elliot glances up from his computer and then looks back down; he then does a double take and his eyes rise and look me up and down. He sits up as if suddenly interested, and holding a pen between his fingers he says, “Hello Kathryn.”

I grip my folder with white-knuckle force. “Hello.”

“Please.” He gestures to the seat at his desk. “Come in.”

I walk in as his eyes drop to my toes and then back up to my face for the second time today, and he leans back in his chair as if pleased about something.

I raise my eyebrow. “What?”

A trace of a smile crosses his face. “What, what?”

“Why do you look like that?” I ask.

“I was just going to ask you the same question.”

“Oh.” I glance down at myself and feel like I have to justify my choice of outfit. “I just—”

“Look lovely,” he cuts me off.

I stare at him, unsure what to say next. I swallow the large lump that is lodged firmly in my throat. “The report?” I stammer.

“Yes.” His eyes hold mine. “Let’s do that.” He points to the seat with his pen and rotates his chair back to his computer. “I wanted to go through a few points. I’m unsure how to read the data.”

“Okay.” I sink into the chair.

He looks up and narrows his eyes as if processing a new thought. “A new perfume.”

“What?”

“You’re wearing a new perfume today.”

“No, I’m not,” I snap. Oh, hell on a cracker . . . this trying to be sexy is a disaster.

“Yes . . . you are. I know your scent.” His eyes hold mine. “And . . . today it’s different.”

He knows my scent . . . what the fuck?

I frown as I stare at him. “Umm . . . ” I give a subtle shake of my head, completely flustered. “I don’t know, maybe you haven’t been around me when I’ve worn it before.”

“What a shame.”

I drop my head in confusion. Is he flirting with me?

I don’t get it: for seven years I’ve known this man, despised him, and thankfully been immune to his charm. I’ve watched every woman around me in the office fall desperately in lust with Elliot Miles and I could never see the attraction.

For the life of me, I didn’t get what they saw in him.

Today, I do.

I open my folder as a distraction.

Focus.

“So . . . the projected income is on the left-hand side of the graph here.” I point to the pink line with my finger as I try to act professional. “This line here is the actual income of the UK office, and this line here is projected advertising costs, although we don’t have all the data for France . . .” My eyes flick up to see if he’s listening; he’s sitting back in his chair, his thumb is under his chin, and his pointer finger is tracing over his lips as if he’s thinking deeply.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“I’m . . .” I pause. Huh? “I’m explaining the projection report. Isn’t that . . . ?”

“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Is this an entrapment?”

“I’m sorry . . .” I frown.

“Is that your plan?”

“I don’t understand.”

He stands and puts his hands in his suit pockets as if angered. “That’s it . . . isn’t it?”

“What?” I shake my head, confused.

“Do you really hate me that much that you would stoop that low?”

“What are you talking about?” I frown again.

He screws up his face. “Come off it, Landon. I wasn’t born yesterday. It’s all making sense now.”

“Well.” I widen my eyes. “Good, because you can explain it to me. I don’t know what you’re talking about. What’s wrong with this report?”

“I can see it so clearly now . . .” He shakes his head as if having an epiphany. “Of course, that’s it,” he whispers under his breath.

“Mr. Miles.”

“Elliot,” he corrects me. “And don’t give me your fucking shit.” He picks up a remote from his desk and points it to the corner of the ceiling; I glance up and see the green light go off. He just turned the security cameras off.

“So, this is your plan?” he sneers.

“Plan?”

“Turn your stupid boss on, until he cracks and pursues you. Then you have him charged with sexual harassment in the workplace.”

My mouth falls open in horror. “What?”

“Oh, please.” He screws up his face in disgust. “It’s clear as day now—the hot little dress, turning up at that event looking like a walking fucking orgasm and then going home with another man. The sauna, ha.” He throws his head back. “The sauna was a good one, what chance do I have seeing you hot and sweaty in a bikini like that?”

I stare at him as my brain misfires.

I turn him on.

“You can cut the shit, right fucking now,” he growls.

My temper begins to simmer. “Turn the camera back on for this because I want you to rewatch it later when you’re in a straitjacket.” I stand and we come toe to toe. “For your information . . . Mr. Miles,” I sneer, “I have just come out of a traumatic period in my life and have just started to refind myself. My new clothes, male friendships, and dresses have nothing to do with you or your inflated ego.”

He narrows his eyes as we glare at each other.

“This may come as a surprise, but I have only ever treated you as you have treated me, with contempt. Excuse me for not lining up to suck your dick like the rest of the stupid female population.”

“You know nothing about me.”

“I know that I’m not a bitch. You, however, are a fucking asshole . . . and stupidly, for a few moments there, I forgot.”

I slam the report folder down on his desk.

“What was the trauma in your life?” he barks.

“None of your business.” I turn and walk toward the door.

“Kate.”

I turn like the devil himself and point at him. “You don’t get to call me that,” I growl. “To you, I’m Kathryn.” I march out the door and straight through reception, hit the elevator button and bite my lip to hold it in.

I can feel the angry tears coming.

Don’t cry . . . don’t cry . . . don’t you fucking dare let him make you cry.

Entrapment.

What an asshole.