Seven Nights of Sin (Penthouse Affair #2) novel Chapter 8

“It’s seven nights, Presley. You can do as you please while I’m busy during the day, but in front of Roger, out at dinner, we’ll pretend we’re still dating.” I fix her with a sharp look. “Assuming you can handle that.”

She sucks in a breath. Was that a tiny shiver or just my imagination?

“So . . . when you say ‘pretend we’re dating,’ I assume . . .” Her voice is quiet. “I assume we won’t be doing anything date-like for real.”

“No. That time is over. If you accompanied me to London, it would be for work only. Plain and simple. You’ll obviously be compensated handsomely for your time away.”

Presley drops her gaze. She’s trying to hide it, but I can tell she’s hurt.

Hell, if it stings me to say those words, it must feel a hundred times worse to hear them. But I’d rather err on the side of being a little too harsh than lead her on. I can’t make her think that this offer is about anything emotional, anything beyond keeping Roger in a happy, cooperative mood.

“Just to be crystal clear,” I say, “I want to emphasize that you’re absolutely free to say no. Your job doesn’t depend on agreeing to this trip.”

Sure, she came on to me a few days ago, but for all I know, maybe she’s totally over the idea of sleeping in a hotel room with me ever again. The thought triggers a twinge of hurt that I immediately squelch. I can’t unduly influence her decision just because she thinks it’s what I want . . . even though I do want it. So damn badly.

She still doesn’t respond, just keeps studying my office carpet, looking torn. I can practically hear the gears spinning in her agile brain.

After another few moments of silence, I wave my hand airily. “There’s no rush. You have a few days to think it over. My flight doesn’t leave until—”

“I’ll do it.” Her tone is firm.

I blink. “What?”

Presley looks up again, still unsure, but determined. “I want to go to London with you.”

She’s caught me off guard. I didn’t plan on that. I expected hesitancy, and instead she’s given me urgency. I hate it . . . and love it too.

“Are you sure? I wouldn’t be angry or let it affect our work relationship if you’d rather not.”

“I know,” Presley replies, like it’s so obvious it goes without saying. “You wouldn’t hold my career hostage just to get your way. You’re not the kind of man who’d do something like that. I trust you . . .” She hesitates. “And I want you to trust me again.”