"At least he can tell me why he's cancelling again to my face," the woman finishes. She stands just inside my office, her green eyes blazing toward me.

The annoyance of being barged in on is replaced by shock at the woman that's standing before me. This woman is all curves in all the right places, her cleavage showing just enough to tantalize me with thoughts of what she'd look like naked in my bed.

But it's her eyes, so bright they seem on fire as she stares me down-her eyes are what really stir me.

She's determined, but more than that, she has a spark, a fire, and it lights something inside of me.

Sandra, not used to being disrespected or railroaded, stands behind the woman looking like she's ready to body slam her, despite the arthritis. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Croft. She just barged through. I was about to call security."

"You don't look too busy to me," the woman says to me, eyeing the scotch.

"That's it," Sandra says. "I'm calling security." She turns back toward her desk to grab her phone.

The woman doesn't budge. In fact she slowly crosses her arms across her chest, c.o.c.ks her leg out, and begins tapping one of her stilettos.

Something washes over me-something more undeniable than her absolute beauty.

Her long hair is pulled back in a low ponytail, and her dress is not as tailored as the businesswomen I'm used to being around, but d.a.m.n if it doesn't smooth over her in the s.e.xiest way.

But this is my turf.

I know how to stand my ground with the most powerful people in the industry. She's beautiful, and her act is cute, but she has no idea who she's dealing with.

"Trying to come up with an excuse?" she says, breaking into my thoughts.

Very nice line. I like it.

And I like that for a brief fleeting moment, this woman caused me to forget the burning ashes of betrayal that I can still taste in my mouth...the memory of that phone call still making me feel like I want to throw my chair through the f.u.c.king window.

"I don't need an excuse," I tell her.

"Could've fooled me," she replies instantly.

I want to chuckle at her, but there's a reason I can clean house in poker with anyone from the guys from the mailroom to the gentlemen at the Algonquin Club. My expression doesn't change as I tell Sandra, "Don't call security. I can handle this." Without a word Sandra hangs up her phone and closes the door for me.

Once we're alone, I say, "I don't know who you are, but unfortunately now is not a good time, so I will have to rearrange our date."

"You mean our meeting?" she says.

"Today's no good," I respond, ignoring her jab.

"I'm here, you're clearly not busy, and I'd like to go ahead with our meeting," she says.

"What did you say your name was?"

"I didn't. I'm Emily Brown," she says, her chin lifted slightly. She's trying to be authoritative, but I can hear the quiver in her voice. "I'm from the Children's Education Fund. I'd like to discuss our annual goals."

"I've never heard of your charity and I really don't have time to worry about someone else's financial goals. I have my own, Ms. Brown."

I have to stay focused. After that phone call I just received, the last thing I need is some bullheaded woman throwing me off the goals I've worked my life to achieve. My goals, not some kid charity nonsense.

She pushes ahead, trying her best to keep talking. "It's called the Children's Education Fund and it's-"

"I heard you the first time you said the name," I tell her. "And to be clear, I'm not sure how you got on my calendar, but I have charities asking me for money on a daily basis. I don't need another one."

She shifts her leg so that she's standing full upright. She's a little thing, no more than five-four. But right now she's doing everything she can to demand authority. "The least you can do is give me five minutes after cancelling on me twice before now. If you'd stop trying to get me out of your office we could have been halfway through this meeting by now."

"A meeting I have no interest in having," I remind her. Although, to be fair, she's doing a good job of holding my attention right now. Especially those t.i.ts. And those legs. What would she do, I wonder, if I grabbed her and bent her over my desk right this very second?

I think that perhaps she would welcome it. My d.i.c.k stiffens and I find my lip twitching into a near smile as she bravely continues her little pitch.

"It's a highly worthwhile organization," she says. "I have some papers for you that will help explain." She starts digging in the black canvas bag dangling at her side. "Thirty-four percent of kindergarten children lack basic language-"

"You look a little young to be leading the fundraising for a non-profit," I say, partially because I'm curious, but also to keep her riled up-and throw her off her speech, which she has probably practiced in the mirror thirty times.

I have to admit, it's fun to watch her squirm. Also, it gives me an excuse to really look at her-her full lips, which she licks in way that makes me want to crush her mouth with my own.

"I'm not that young," she says. "I'm a graduate student at Boston University."

"You're a student?" I say. "What the h.e.l.l kind of organization sends a student to my office to get money for some charity no one has ever heard of?"

"Maybe I'm just that good," she replies, color blooming in her cheeks.

My d.i.c.k stiffens further, and now I really am tempted to grab her and throw her over the desk, slide my d.i.c.k into that p.u.s.s.y, knowing how tight and wet and ready she would be for me...

"I'm used to dealing with CEOs, presidents, senior directors of development at the very least," I continue, feigning boredom. Truly, though, this is a fun distraction. Better than the scotch.

"I'm here because I thought-"

"That you could just walk in here and ask for a pile of money and I'd hand it over? It doesn't work like that in the real world."

"I thought I could come here and we'd have a discussion, Mr. Croft," she says. "You're right, this isn't going the way I thought it would. Not at all." She takes a deep breath, keeping her eyes focused on me. "We're looking to raise money for our annual fund that focuses on getting kids to read, especially kids in disadvantaged neighborhoods. There's a luncheon coming up-"

"Which I won't go to," I say. Charity luncheon? An absolute h.e.l.l and waste of my time. Clearly this woman knows nothing about me. Which, of course, gives me a little more power over her, always a good thing.

"I didn't say you had to." She's not going down without a fight. "You can simply donate, earmark the money for the reading fund or any other program within CEF. We prefer general restrictions-that way we can put the money where it's most needed at any given time."

"I have to say," I begin, "that you really sound like I've already agreed to write you a check. Which I have not."

"Studies show that children who-"

I hold up my hand. Honestly, I can't listen to such mundane statistics. "Look, Emily, I'm going to be honest with you. Please spare me the sob story about babies who can't read. I don't care about your charity. I don't care if these kids can read or not, or what their level of reading is. It doesn't matter to me. It is not what I'm here for. I am here to make money, broker deals, build buildings that make the Boston skyline even more beautiful and invest in real things that make lots of money. I'll leave all the philanthropy nonsense to philosophers and dreamers to figure out. People like yourself, obviously."

Emily keeps her eyes fixed on me for a moment before saying, "You truly are as cold as they say. I didn't believe the stories, I came in here with an open mind, but it turns out you're even worse than I could have imagined." She shakes her head. "We need to invent a new word for cold because it doesn't fit, that's for sure. Colder than ice."

Somehow I'm amused rather than offended. She has no idea that this version of me has been forged through years of relentless battles fought with and against those closest to me. She has no clue that it's people like me who make jobs like hers possible.

But if she wants to melt the ice man, then perhaps I'll see just how far she's willing to go to heat things up.

"Tell you what," I say, rising from the desk and slipping my hands in my pockets. "I will donate to your non-profit." I pause, relishing in the surprise-and self-satisfaction-that flashes across Emily's face. Like she just can't wait to run back to her boss and brag that she did it-she landed a donation from the mighty Jackson Croft of Croft International. "In fact," I say, "I'll make it generous. Ten thousand dollars."

A breath escapes her lips, and she can't help but smile. She is pleased with herself. "Thank you very much, Mr. Croft. The Children's Education Fund thanks you." She strides toward me, that satisfied look playing on her lips with her hand stretched out toward mine. I take it in my own. Her hand is tiny-my own completely engulfs it, covering the smooth, soft skin.

"I'm not done yet," I say, keeping her hand in mine. "There's one condition. I'll donate the money-if you allow me to take you out to dinner tonight."

The smirk falls away from her face, and she pulls her hand out of my grasp.

"There is no way in h.e.l.l," she says. "Not even for a million."

Emily

Arrogant p.r.i.c.k.

Never has the term seemed so fitting. What an arrogant p.r.i.c.k this Jackson Croft is, and to think I actually believed he'd want to add some philanthropy to his company, if for no other reason than it makes them look good.

As his words sink in, I'm shocked at his proposition. Even after I've said no, he's clearly not discouraged. I can tell by the way he's watching me, confident, his expression almost amused.

I'm suddenly fl.u.s.tered, despite my best intentions to stay focused and calm.

Because despite the fact that he's an arrogant p.r.i.c.k, I can't help admit-secretly and only to myself-that he is hot.

He really knows how to wear that suit, perfect to his every muscle and bulge. The cost of that one suit could probably fund three kids in our program.

Of course, this makes me even more determined to say no to him-his values are so out of whack.

I square myself against him, trying to keep my eyes on his face, chiseled though it is, and not let them drift to his broad chest and flat abs. He may be wearing a perfectly fitted oxford and tie, but there is no hiding the fact that there's one amazing body beneath the fabric.

"Look," I say, trying to steady my voice. "There's no way I'll go to dinner with you just so we can get a donation. You are totally delusional." I need to get out of his office and fast, because whoa. I can feel myself losing what little authority I pretended to have when I first stepped in here.

The longer I'm near this guy the weaker I feel. It's purely an animal thing, I'm sure. The guy is an a.s.shole. But he's still the hottest man I've ever seen in my entire life.

Despite the fact that I am embarra.s.singly inexperienced in romance and s.e.x, no man has ever made me feel this strongly, this quickly. It's like I can feel the pull toward him, my body wanting to get closer to him, while my brain tells me to run for the door.

So I do, I head for the door, eager to get out, regretting my decision to storm in here in the first place.

"Emily, wait."

My fingers are on the cool door handle. I pause. Looking back at Jackson, I can't help but be curious. "What?"

"Slow down," he says, and although his face is stern, I swear I hear the slightest hint of teasing in his deep baritone. He likes this, being in control.

"I won't be bought," I tell him. My parents taught my siblings and me to stand strong on our own two feet and make the world a better place, but they didn't mean like this. Dad always said integrity can't be bought, and he's right. Clearly Jackson is used to buying whatever he wants, but he's got the wrong girl this time.

His looks might make me weak in the knees, but his personality is ugly, and that's what really counts.

"I'm not trying to buy you," Jackson says. His voice has softened. "I'd simply like to spend the evening with you. One meal. I was curt with you when you came in here, and I want to make it up to you. Maybe you can tell me more about what you do at the fund." He c.o.c.ks his head to the side, his eyes like lasers on me. My heart has picked up speed again and I try to keep my emotions steady.

This isn't how this morning was supposed to go. I knew Jackson Croft would be intimidating-a twenty-eight-year-old billionaire doesn't get to this position without some serious b.a.l.l.s, even if it is the family business. But I didn't expect him to make me feel like charging across the room and wrapping my legs around his waist. I squirm under his gaze.

But if he can stay strong, so can I. "Not a chance," I say, lifting my chin to show that I mean it-even if I am intrigued at the prospect. Which is why I have to get out of here, quickly.

Before I can open the door, he says, "Twenty thousand."

"Excuse me?" I say, turning back to him.

"I'll donate twenty thousand dollars to your charity."

"Great, I'll take the check now," I say, hoping against reason that he's not serious about the strings.

He slowly shakes his head. His hair is thick, chestnut brown with golden highlights that probably come from summers at Cape Cod. It's combed back, every strand perfectly in place. G.o.d, even his hair wouldn't dare disobey him.

"Dinner, Ms. Brown," he says. "Tonight."

"No," I say, my face now blazing. I can't believe the arrogance of his guy. "And it's ridiculous that you're even playing this game. With a charity. For kids."

I'm disgusted and just want to get out of here.

I can dream about running my fingers through his hair as his lips kiss my neck-dream about him from a safe distance-but I can't stand to be in this office a second longer.

Just as I finally open the door, he says, "One hundred thousand dollars."

The words freeze me. A hundred thousand dollars. I mentally do the math and think about all the kids whose lives we could change. Plus it would be the biggest donation in the organization's history.

All I have to do is sit through a dinner with him.

Just the two of us.

I wonder: would that really be so bad? I mean, I do have to eat, right? It might as well be with him instead of the UBurger I planned on picking up at the end of the day.

I close the door and turn back to Jackson. I stride across the room quickly, before I lose my nerve. He seems at once startled and amused.

I'm standing what feels like inches from him. So close I can smell him, a light, clean scent with a hint of spice. Up close I see the gold dust in the brown of his eyes, and the smooth skin over the sharp lines of his jaw.

Maybe moving so close wasn't a great idea. Now all I want to do is slide my hands up his chest and see if it really is as hard and strong as it looks through his shirt.

"Yes?" he says, cool as ever.

"You can't be serious," I say.

"I'm always serious."