Chapter Fifteen #2
His mouth curves faintly. “That is a very polite way of skirting around the word ‘incompetence.’”
“It is Monday morning. I start off on a positive note and leave the snarling and insults for later in the week.”
"A wise tactic." He smiles.
I gauge his reaction to see if it's anything other than friendly.
It's not.
Lorenzo Conti is a very handsome man. Not in the same way as Mario. They both have the same sharp features and strong bone structure, but Mario doesn't have the polish Lorenzo does.
He could, but he doesn't bother.
“I’m not accusing him of anything,” I say, going back to Peter. “But he does not need visibility into executive travel, leadership compensation, or security incident archives to review warehouse certifications and transport documentation.”
“No,” Lorenzo says. “He does not.”
“And the fact that he’s this angry about losing it is…” I pause, choosing the word carefully. “Interesting.”
Lorenzo’s eyes sharpen again.
“Yes,” he says. “It is.”
“I planned to message Ricardo directly,” I continue. “Since it’s his department, and I will, but I thought you might want to know as well, and…”
I stop, a bit sheepish, and clear my throat
Lorenzo’s mouth curves faintly.
“He can be intense. Ricardo.”
“Maybe a bit,” I say, feeling foolish.
“Do not let that stop you from sending the message.”
“I won’t.”
“Good. Ricardo prefers problems be brought to him early. He only bites when they are brought to him late.”
“That is meant to reassure me?”
“Not entirely.”
I laugh. “I will get that message to him first thing.”
Lorenzo’s smile returns. “Send me the emails too. I’ll keep an eye on it.”
“Thank you.”
“And Victoria?”
“Yes?”
“If Hanley contacts you again and refuses to accept the answer, forward it directly to Ricardo. Do not spend your time arguing with a man who thinks inconvenience is persecution.”
I laugh softly. “That may be the most accurate description of half my inbox.”
He nods toward my office. “Welcome back.”
I unlock my office.
“And Victoria.” He pauses.
I turn back.
“You do look better,” he says. “I mean that sincerely.”
Something in my chest softens before I can stop it.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Try to stay that way.”
I almost laugh. “I’ll do my best.”
He nods once, then starts down the corridor.
I step into my office and close the door behind me.
For a moment, I just stand there and take it in.
Everything is exactly as I left it Friday evening before everything changed in a parking garage.
Except it is not.
Because there is a box on my desk.
A small white box tied with a dark blue ribbon.
For a second, I simply stare at it.
The box is positioned in the exact center of my desk.
My first instinct is to look around, as if whoever left it is hiding in a corner somewhere.
Obviously, no one is there.
Still, my pulse starts misbehaving, jumping and stuttering.
I step closer.
There is a small card tucked beneath the ribbon.
No envelope. No name on the outside.
I pull it free and unfold it.
To replace what I destroyed.
That is all.
No signature.
My entire body goes hot.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
I look toward the door again, just in case someone has decided to peep into my office.
No one.
I set my bags down slowly, then reach for the ribbon.
My fingers feel clumsy.
Which is absurd.
I have negotiated contracts worth millions of dollars. I have sat across from executives twice my age and told them their compliance programs were decorative at best. I have opened litigation notices with steadier hands than this.
But apparently a white box on my desk is my undoing.
The ribbon slides loose.
I lift the lid.
Then I stop breathing.
I drop the lid and beeline for the door, locking it.
Slowly, cautiously, I walk back to my desk and sit, suddenly weak.
I reach for the lid again.
Inside, nestled in tissue paper, is lingerie.
Deep blue lace.
Not navy, but something richer, darker. The color of midnight.
A bra and matching panties.
Sexy. Delicate. Expensive-looking.
Very expensive-looking.
I touch the edge of the lace with one finger and immediately know I am right.
This is no department store lingerie. This is not even special-occasion lingerie I would buy after having a small financial crisis at the register.
I find the label.
Then nearly drop the bra.
“Oh, absolutely not.”
I know the brand.
Of course I know the brand. I have seen it in glossy advertisements and definitively closed the tab after seeing the price of one bra. Not even a set. Not with matching panties. Just the bra.
I could not justify spending this much on lingerie if I lived to be a hundred and won the lottery.
And he put it in my office.
Just sitting on the desk like this.
Heat crawls up my neck, and there’s a sudden, vicious memory of his hands ripping lace apart like it was nothing.
My knees feel a little weak, and I’m grateful I’m sitting.
Friday night comes back in a flash.
His mouth hovering inches above where I need it.
His eyes watching me intently.
The sound of lace tearing.
My gasp.
The shock of it. The sheer, filthy heat of it.
I had never had a man rip anything off me before. I had certainly never expected to like it.
This is not acceptable workplace behavior.
I am sitting in my office at nine-something on a Monday morning with a mountain of work waiting for me.
And all I can think about is the sound of lace ripping.
I lift the bra out of the tissue paper.
The weight of it surprises me. Not heavy exactly, but substantial in that way truly expensive things are. The lace is like water beneath my fingers, the stitching nearly invisible, every detail designed with obscene care.
The panties are worse, yet so beautiful.
Barely there.
Completely impractical.
Exactly the kind of thing a woman would wear if she knew a man was going to take his time looking.
My face burns.
I look at the tag and lift my brows.
My size.
Exactly my size.
Not guessed in that broad, optimistic way men guess bra sizes and get wrong.
This is exact.
Band. Cup. Panty size.
Of course.
Mario Conti is a man who notices everything.
A man who had his hands on every inch of me. A man who had taken off my bra himself, dragged my panties down, then destroyed them with absolutely no remorse.
And remembered the details well enough to replace lingerie with the correct size and a price tag that makes my credit card whine.
This is insane.
Thoughtful. Invasive. Arrogant.
Hot.
It is all of those things at once.
I set the bra back in the tissue paper carefully, as if it might detonate.
Then I pick up the note again.
To replace what I destroyed.
That is all.
No apology because he is not sorry.
Not even a little bit.
He destroyed my underwear, which was nice but certainly nothing special, then apparently decided the appropriate response was to replace it with something that costs more than I make in a month.
Maybe two.
I press the note against the desk and close my eyes.
I need to work.
I need to open my laptop. I need to check Benjamin’s vendor-access summaries and Ainsley’s payroll notes and the twelve calendar invites that will not answer themselves.
I do not need to sit here thinking about whether Mario chose this himself.
Did he?
Did he walk into some impossibly expensive lingerie boutique, look at rows of lace and silk, and choose this exact shade of blue? Did he send someone? Did he describe what he wanted? Did he picture me wearing it?
My stomach flips.
No.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
I put the lid back on the box.
Then take it off again and just stare.
I touch the strap.
Then my phone buzzes, and I nearly jump out of my skin.
I put the lid firmly on the box, then I slide it into the bottom drawer of the desk. The drawer that locks.
Out of sight.
Not out of mind. Not even close.
My phone buzzes again.
It’s Ainsley texting, asking when a good time to meet to discuss the second phase of our plan.
I stare at the message for a second.
Right. Work.
The thing I am here to do.
Not sit in my office with my pulse racing because I can’t stop picturing Mario’s eyes taking me in while I wear his gift.
I take a breath and type back.
How about tomorrow morning? Does 8:00 work for you?
I glance toward the locked drawer again.
I place both hands on the keyboard and take one steadying breath. Then another.
I am professional.
I am composed.
I am here to do a job.
And I am absolutely not thinking about the box in my drawer.
I last four minutes.