Charlotte jerked her eyes guiltily up from his thighs, face red. Thankfully, he was scowling at something on his phone, which he must’ve picked up from the office since she knew his run was the one time of day when he made himself unreachable. As a stress-relief measure, she approved. The fact she got to start her day by seeing him sweaty and hot and in running shorts? A bonus.
“I’m sending you an address,” he said now. “Have a dozen roses delivered.”
Her happy mood dived. “What color?”
“Red, of course.”
For once, she didn’t watch him leave, didn’t give in to the temptation to sneak a glimpse of the seriously built male who was her boss. Instead, she checked her e-mail to see who was about to receive a dozen red roses from Gabriel Bishop—likely the same woman to whom he’d given the bracelet.
Fabiana Flores.
Charlotte would’ve had to have lived under a rock for the past week not to recognize the name of the glamorous model with the bee-stung lips who was in the country for a perfume launch. As she contacted a florist to place the order, she told herself not to be surprised. Athletes and models—it was a predictable combination. And why not? Both took care of their bodies, were often of heights that complemented one another—
“Stop obsessing, Charlotte.” After all, fantasies about him aside, it wasn’t as if she’d entertained any serious hopes of Gabriel looking in her direction. In fact, she couldn’t think of anything worse: the brutal truth was that she’d most likely panic, fear clutching her throat and stealing the air from her lungs, and it would wreck everything.
It hurt to admit that, admit her deficiencies so bluntly, but Charlotte had stopped lying to herself the day she’d broken things off with Richard. Lies and false hope only ever led to pain and betrayal.
Gabriel Bishop was simply out of her league.
9
THE MOUSE GROWLS
TWO AND A HALF MONTHS later, and Charlotte had sent countless bouquets of red roses on Gabriel’s behalf, each one to a different woman. Models, actresses, television anchors, two doctors, a long-haul commercial pilot, three fellow CEOs, and a chef. The chef returned the roses with their heads lopped off.
Seeing the beheaded stems when she took the open box into his office, Gabriel winced. “You see why a second date would’ve been a bad idea, don’t you, Ms. Baird?”
Charlotte didn’t know why she said what she did when she’d been the perfect personal assistant for so many weeks, discreet and efficient and invisible except when he needed her. Well, okay, there had been that incident with the muffin, but he’d driven her to it, so it didn’t count.
She couldn’t explain today’s response as easily. Maybe it was the sad, beheaded roses. She felt an acute sympathy for the angry chef, for all the red-rose women. Or perhaps it was the fact the florist now knew her by name, saying, “The usual?” when Charlotte called.
There was only so much a PA could take.
“It appears, Mr. Bishop,” she said from her standing position on the other side of his desk, “that you don’t believe in second dates at all.” The parade of stunning women in his life was endless—and no face was ever repeated.
One date and they were out.
Leaning back in the black leather of his executive chair, arms folded behind his head and the fine gray cotton of his shirt stretched across the defined ridges and valleys of his chest, Gabriel grinned. It was as devastating as usual, but Charlotte had learned to deal with the dip in her stomach that was her response to her boss’s smile. Unfortunately for her, her susceptibility to him had increased rather than decreased in the time they’d worked together.
His physical attractiveness was only a small part of it.
Gabriel might not know the meaning of commitment when it came to women, but you could take his word to the bank in business. His employees—and the entire board for that matter—remained more than a touch intimidated by him, but they respected him and his promises. Not only was he fair, he worked harder than any one of them, and the company was going from strength to strength under his leadership.
Smart, driven, gorgeous, he was more compelling than anyone she’d ever met. He was also the most arrogant.
“I wouldn’t want anyone to get ideas,” he said, the glint in his eye familiar. “Second date and women start thinking about monogrammed towels and engagement rings.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes.
He caught it, of course. “You disagree?”
“I wouldn’t presume to comment on your private life.” No matter how much she wanted to.
“Come on, Ms. Baird, don’t get shy now.”
Charlotte didn’t trust that tone in his voice—it was a dare. Charlotte didn’t take dares. Especially from T-Rexes with very sharp teeth. “Would you like these in water?” she asked, holding up the box of stems.
“You have a mean streak.” Lowering his arms with a scowl, he glanced at the face of the heavy metal watch he always wore. On him, it was in perfect proportion, suiting the heaviness of his bones, the taut lines of muscle in his forearms.
“Damn, I have to deal with the mess Clarke’s made in his region.”
“I’ll get the files.” She stopped in the doorway, the same strange something that had made her comment on his dating tactics poking at her until she said, “Want me to call up the chef and ask her to send you dinner tonight?”
HE WANTED HER.
Petite, intelligent, with a hidden fire in her eyes when he pushed too hard, and a smart mouth he wanted to taste, Charlotte Baird was Gabriel’s version of perfect. “Thank you, but no,” he said to her retreating form. “I prefer not to die from food poisoning.”