Forbidden Desire (Maid for the Billionaire Prince) (9 page)

I’m floored. A hundred thousand? I think there’s something wrong with my ears.

I say, “Uh . . . did I hear you correctly?”

He grins. “You mean about Sully in HR?”

I’m speechless. Somewhere inside my skull, wheels are cranking and suspicions are rising. For one hundred thousand dollars, is he expecting me to do a lot more than what is purportedly listed in my job scope?

You’re reaching, Elizabeth Tyrell.
Why would a man as sinfully attractive and dynamic as Christopher Morton want anything to do with you when he will have women crawling at his feet, practically falling over themselves to do anything he wants?

Yes, I shamefully admit. There’s that. I’m getting ahead of myself. Just because he’s eyeing me with interest and speculation, it doesn’t mean it’s carnal. I’m at an interview.
My
interview. It would only be normal if my future employer’s vivid eyes rake over me with a fine-tooth comb, making feel naked in the process.

And I do feel naked. Vulnerable and naked.

But it isn’t the type of naked that makes me feel down and dirty inside, like if I’m caught reading a porn magazine at a kiosk. It’s the type of naked that sends an undeniable frisson of something electrifying and dangerous through my insides, and I have to suppress the shudder flowing through my loins.

I steal a look at Christopher Morton’s face. Wham! It hits me again – his overpowering good looks and raw animal sensuality. My knees are wobbly underneath the table.

No, no, no. I must not. I cannot. He’s my employer now. His hazel eyes burn with a startling intensity, and I wonder if this is the reaction he elicits from everyone.

It strikes me that I have already accepted his job offer.

I say, “Yes. I mean . . . I can start immediately, sir . . . Mr. Morton . . . uh, Chris.”

His smile spreads broadly. “Good then. Let’s shake on it.”

He offers me his hand. After deliberating for a while, I take it. It’s not that I don’t want to shake his hand. It’s just that –

Our palms meet.

A tingle like a nerve struck at my elbow courses up my forearm. My breath freezes in my throat.

Oh. My. God.

I didn’t know that his sexual magnetism would translate into his touch.

I have to squeeze every ounce of my willpower to
not
retract my hand as though I have touched a livewire. This is not me. I don’t react this way to handsome boys, even though they may be sex gods. I’ve been brought up to be a good girl with good, deeply entrenched family values of virtue and modesty.

I’m starting to believe that I have been put here for a purpose. This is a test – of my willpower and reserve and my deep-seated commitment to my own values.

I steel myself.

I can do this.

I smile. “Thank you, Chris. I take it that I’ll start tomorrow.”

“Seeing as I’m left in a lurch without a PA, I’d rather you start right now. But tomorrow will be fine.”

We both get up together, pushing back our respective chairs. He hands me back my portfolio, and I take it.

“Sully in HR,” he says.

“Right.” I take a step backwards and almost stumble. “So I’ll see you tomorrow, Chris.”

I’m never going to get used to saying that name as long as I live, I swear.

“Tomorrow then.” He regards me with that unsettling stare of his.

I scuttle out of the room before I can embarrass myself further. Oh, this is a mistake. A major mistake, taking this job.

What have I gotten myself into?