Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 53764 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 269(@200wpm)___ 215(@250wpm)___ 179(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 53764 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 269(@200wpm)___ 215(@250wpm)___ 179(@300wpm)
"That's fine."
Natalie turned her mouth up and hoped it resembled a smile as she pushed away from the counter and attempted to slip past him and put this uncomfortable encounter behind her. "Goodnight, then."
She thought she was home free as she walked by him. And then she felt her wrist lifted from behind and encapsulated in the hard heat of his grip.
"Natalie." His eyes were hot on hers, glittering down with both a beguiling question and scorching need that almost decimated her, making her bones melt where she stood.
His thumb caressed her pulse point as he slowly and firmly began to pull her toward him. His eyes fell to her lips and her brain began screaming at him in silent denial. Don't do it! Don't touch me. Don't be that guy. Don't touch me when you have a girlfriend. You have a girlfriend--a girlfriend--
Her eyes closed tightly against him and her body stiffened into lines of stubborn refusal. She felt his grip lessen, but not release her altogether. She opened her eyes to find him staring down at her, lines of tension bracketing his mouth.
She twisted her wrist, attempting to pull it from his grasp. "Goodnight, Marco."
She managed to live through three of the longest seconds in her life until finally, he released her from his grip. "Goodnight."
She turned and fled to the sanctuary of her bedroom.
****
Marco sat in his office the next day fighting a vicious headache. He tried to concentrate on the file that Joy had just given him, but it was next to impossible.
"What's wrong with you?" his long-time assistant asked, a puzzled look on her face.
"Nothing--a headache." He abandoned the file momentarily and leaned his face into his hands.
"It doesn't look like nothing. You look pale. Are you sick?"
"Sick?" He sounded perplexed, as if the concept of being sick wasn't something he'd even remotely considered. Other people got sick; he didn't.
"Yes, Marco, sick." Joy, an older woman and a grandmother to boot, moved around the desk and slapped a hand to his forehead, and he felt--not himself enough to let her do it. "You're burning up. I bet your temperature is over a hundred. You need to go home."
"I'm not going home. That's insane," he answered, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes.
"It's three o'clock in the afternoon, you don't have anymore appointments today. Take the McMasters file with you if it will make you feel better and go home. Pop some meds and crawl in bed and get some rest."
"No, absolutely not."
"Marco, don't be so stubborn. Go home. Have that new housekeeper of yours make you some soup and tuck you in."
He lifted his hands away from his face and gave her a penetrating stare. "You really think I need to go home?"
"Yes. You don't want all of us catching it, do you?"
"All right, I'll go," he acquiesced quickly, not at all like his usual self.
****
Natalie walked into the penthouse after a particularly grueling workout. She was sweaty from head to foot, and needed a shower desperately.
"Where've you been?"
The last thing she expected was for Marco to be home already, and she flinched from the accusation in his tone as her eyes went unerringly to the couch where he was sitting, facing the door, waiting for her to get home.
"Down in the gym," she answered as mildly as she could.
"I needed you. You should have been here. I called your damn phone and heard it ringing over there." He threw out his arm and motioned in the direction of the kitchen where it was charging.
She looked in the direction of the phone and then back again. She'd only been down there for forty-five minutes and truly hadn't considered taking the phone. "You said it was okay for me to go down there." She lifted her ponytail away from her neck, the sweat trickling down her spine. "Why are you home so early?"
"I'm sick," he said in a tone that suggested it was all her fault.
"What's wrong?" Natalie asked him, walking farther into the room.
"I have a headache and fever. Joy said you should make me soup."
"How high is your fever?" she asked.
"I don't know. How can you tell?" Again, his tone implied everything that was wrong was her fault.
"With a thermometer. Or otherwise, how bad you feel." She would not get drawn into a fight by his bad attitude.
"I feel bad. It must be high," he stated like a petulant child.
"Maybe you should go see a doctor."
"Why would I do that? Won't soup fix it?"
"Marco--never mind. I can't just whip up soup instantaneously. Unless you want it out of a can?"
"What other kind is there?"
Natalie studied him to see if he was bullshitting her, but he didn't seem to be. "Okay. I'll fix you some soup. Do you want crackers or grilled cheese sandwiches?"