New York Billionaires Series

The slight widening of his eyes is the only sign of surprise. “What are you doing here?”

My hand tightens into a fist on the table. If my stomach was a ball of nerves before, it’s detonated into butterflies now. “I’m one of the junior professionals here. I was called up for a meeting.”

“Impossible.”

I shake my head. “I started this past Monday.”

He braces his hands on the conference table, the room shrinking with his presence. He’s just as striking under the bright light of day, when there’s no denying the squareness of his jaw or the high cheekbones.

“The three trainees are all male,” he tells me.

Hold up, handsome. “No, they’re not.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Freddie.”

He shakes his head. “Freddie is a man.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“Clearly,” he mutters.

“Freddie is short for Frederica,” I say. “Frederica Bilson.”

He blows out a frustrated breath, leaning back from the table. “Why are you here? How are you here?”

I frown at him and find a sliver of courage amidst the confusion. “What do you mean? I applied for this job six months ago. I sat through interviews and tests. I was chosen and hired, and I started this week.” There’s suspicion in his gaze, barely concealed. It rankles something in me. “Why? Do you think I targeted you this past weekend?”

The brief pause makes it clear that he’d been suspecting just that.

I clasp my hands together on the table to keep them from trembling. “Well, I didn’t. I had no idea who you were.”Please check at N/ôvel(D)rama.Org.

He raises an eyebrow, but I stare right back at him, still unable to believe it’s actually him. Sitting here in front of me.

“Fine,” he grinds out. “I suppose we could find a different department for you. Perhaps another of Exciteur Global’s offices.”

Meeting his gaze is the difficult part. I shake my head and look somewhere over his, ignoring the eyes that had so captivated me last weekend. “I’ve done nothing wrong, and I chose the Strategy Department. It’s not fair for me to be relocated because of something that happened outside of work, not to mention before my employment began.” I clear my throat and force myself to add, “With all due respect, sir. Because you are Tristan Conway?”

“Last time I checked, yes.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Fine. You’ll stay, Freddie.”

“Excellent, and I won’t say a word of what happened last weekend,” I say. “I remember your instructions. Anonymity was rule number one, and I’ll keep it.”

Oh, saying that was a mistake.

Staring into his dark eyes, watching the memory rise and burn in them… it sparks the same in me. I shouldn’t have brought words like past weekend and instructions into this conference room. The memory grows between us until it scalds my cheeks and forces me to look away.

“I’d appreciate it if you don’t,” he says finally.

“Great,” I say. “And for the record… I didn’t mean to send you that email.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I figured.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“Learned the difference between replying and forwarding?”

My blush burns. “I have, Mr. Conway.”

A tense few seconds of silence pass, neither of us looking away. I’m the one who breaks first. “The other trainees should be here soon.”

He nods. “In a few minutes. I gave instructions that Freddie should be the first one here.”

The way he says my name makes it clear he hasn’t forgiven me for the sin of not being a man. I want to roll my eyes at him, but the difference in power between us stops me. We’re not strangers in the darkness anymore.

We never will be again.

Any faint hope I’d had that I’d receive another wrongly delivered invitation, that I’d sneak away to a party and meet him… it dies and withers in my chest.

“You asked for me to be here so you could tell me off?”

“Something along those lines.” He pulls out one of the chairs and sits, stretching long legs out in front of him. The thick watch glitters at his wrist, the same one I’d felt against my skin as he ran his hands over me.

I swallow. “Go ahead, then. I’m ready.”

His lips quirk in unexpected humor, fingers tapping against the table. “Well, since you disagreed with just about everything the company had planned for next month, I’m putting the trainees in charge of Exciteur’s Thanksgiving celebration.”

I stare at him.

He stares right back at me.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The three of you,” he says, voice smooth, “will get a chance to practice your project management skills. You’re to pitch your ideas to me and the event organizers. Consider us, consider me, a client. As the Strategy trainee, you’ll naturally be the team leader.”

“Naturally,” I murmur.

“You’ll report back to management in a week with your suggestions for how we should show some Thanksgiving appreciation to the employees. I want timelines, projected outcomes, budgets.” His grin is wicked, the same one that had sent shivers over my skin just a few days ago. “You clearly think you know better than me, Freddie, and I know you like a challenge.”

The bastard.

He stares at me like he’s daring me to object, like he knows he’s being tough, but letting me know he won’t back down just because of last weekend. Nor should he. Then was then, and now is now, and I don’t want Tristan Conway’s special treatment.

I pitch my voice to professional curtness. “Thank you for this opportunity, Mr. Conway. I won’t disappoint.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I’m sure you won’t, Miss Bilson.”

What are the odds?