Claimed by Alpha Price

Chapter 04

Calling the CEO’s office big would be the year’s biggest understatement. My entire house could sit inside it and still leave room for a two- or three-car garage. The lighting is low, blinds drawn against the last fiery stretch of sunset. Bare black-steel walls surround me, and the deep blue carpet swallows every footstep except the ones my heart is currently hammering out.

The ceiling has a strange, padded quality. After a few seconds I realize the whole room is soundproofed. My eyes go wide. Maybe the rumored private playroom really does exist somewhere up here.

A full living-room set occupies the far end, complete with its own liquor bar.

I can’t keep stalling. The silence is starting to choke me, so I force myself to look at the man behind the enormous, downright throne-like desk in the middle of the room.

Ah.

I barely manage to swallow the gasp that tries to escape. An unexpected wave of heat rolls off Cassian DeLuca. I can’t see much of him yet, but what little I catch is more than enough. The man is hot. Not magazine-hot. Literally hot enough that cold sweat is already sliding down my spine.

“Sir?”

Shick. I sound like I’m about to burst into tears. I try again, pushing more steel into my voice. “Mr. DeLuca? I was told you wanted to speak with me.”

A low chuckle drifts out of the shadows. Then a lightly accented voice, soft and hard at the same time, like a wolf testing the air. “I want something rather than conversation, I’m afraid. But conversation will do for a start.”

I’m going to pretend there was zero innuendo in that sentence.

This is Cassian DeLuca. Beautiful women throw themselves at him daily. Why on earth would he waste time on someone like me?

That logic settles my nerves just enough for me to stay upright when he rises and starts walking toward me. Nobody ever mentioned the height. A company newsletter warning would have been useful: CautionCEO measures 6 '4", rarely smiles, and may appear intimidating. Does not actually bite. Something along those lines belonged in the employee handbook.

The shadows stretch him even taller, darker, andunfortunatelymore magnetic. I swallow, unsure whether the reaction is pure fear or something more complicated. Probably both.

“I know you’re wondering why I asked for you.”

I sink my teeth into my lower lip.

“Do you have something you wish to say, Ms. Wall?”

Shick. Ed wasn’t lying. He really does know my name.

I bite harder. My entire future at this company is hanging by a thread; tact is required.

His voice slides into something silkier, almost snake-like. “I prefer honesty, Ms. Wall. Keep that in mind. If something is on your mind, speak.”

That “please” feels more like a quiet threat. Since an intern’s job is to obey, I answer carefully. “I’m just… surprised you know my name, Mr. DeLuca.”

I feel his smile more than see it. It travels all the way to my toes, which curl against the carpet. I used to think I was basically immune to this kind of thing. Perfect timing to discover I’m notwhen my job is on the line.

His voice drops lower. “You’d be surprised by how much I already know about you, Ms. Walland how much more I intend to learn.”

I’m pretending again that none of that sounded suggestive.

“You don’t believe me?”

I shift my weight. Is honesty still the required policy?

“What if I told you I know you are twenty-one, single, orphaned, adopted by Martha Wall at seven, and currently living with four foster siblings?”

My jaw hits the floor. I start to pick it up, only for it to crash down again when he adds, “And that there may soon be a fifth if your foster mother gets her way.”

Oh. My. God.

A horrible suspicion surfaces that he somehow also knows I’ve never had s*x and that the half-finished sunburst tattoo around my navel looks more like my belly button grew horns. Two rays in and I passed out on the table.

He isn’t finished.

“I also know what happened earlier today between” His tone turns to steel. “you, Brenda Snark, and Julian Hayes.”

Oh.

Shick.

I gag.

Again.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter several miserable minutes later inside his private washroomwhich, for the record, looks like it belongs in a palace. Gold-plated taps. Actual gold. Either that or Cassian DeLuca has more money than he knows what to do with.

“I have a really weak stomach.” I keep my eyes fixed anywhere but on him. Under the harsh fluorescent lights it becomes painfully obvious why supermodels need restraining orders where he’s concerned.

One direct look and he’d probably need one against me, too.

“I understand,” he says evenly. “The sight of Julian Hayes’s wrinkled d**k would have made me throw up as well if I were a woman.”

The mental picture of this walking definition of masculinity heaving over offended feminine sensibilities almost makes me laugh out loud. I choke it back.

“Feeling better?”

I nod, still refusing to meet his gaze.

“Then shall we return to my office?” Without warning his hand settles at the small of my back.

I jump like I’ve been shocked. The contact sends a clean electric jolt straight through me. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

Before I can answer he turns me around to face him fully.

I’m so fracked.

Cassian DeLuca is beautiful. His hair is cropped short at the sides in a near-military cut, yet it still looks soft enough to invite fingers. I have the sudden, dangerous urge to find out exactly how it feels.

His eyes are a deep, impossible greensummer leaves at their darkest. The rest of his face looks like it was carved on a day when God was in an especially generous mood: high cheekbones, a clean aristocratic nose, naturally red lips, and a strong, sharp jaw. Not a single flaw in sight. Perfection, pure and simple.