Chapter 7
He was here!
Giselle’s heart lurched, and she barely managed to stay in her seat, resisting the urge to fidget as Dimitri De Luca stood in her office doorway, watching her.
The man was unbelievably handsome. Not in a soft, charming way, but in a hard, uncompromising manner that sent a shiver of dangerous excitement down her spine.
His dark hair was slightly mussed, as if he’d run his fingers through it in frustration, and his intense, almost-black eyes locked onto hers with unwavering focus.
She had the sudden thought that if Dimitri De Luca stared at something long enough, it would probably crumble under the force of his attention.
Her gaze moved downward before she could stop herself, over his broad, impossibly wide shoulders and the thick muscles stretching the sleeves of his expensive dress shirt.
Her mouth went dry.
His forearms were incredibly powerful. She could see the definition through the material, and for a shining moment, she imagined those arms pinning her in place. She imagined the triumphant, heated look in this man’s eyes as he stared down at her and…!
She forced herself to look away.
Dimitri wasn’t interested in her in that way, Giselle reminded herself.
She’d been reading too many of those deliciously erotic romance novels recently.
With a silent sigh, Giselle reminded herself that she was just an accountant who wore terrible, ill-fitting clothes.
A woman who spent her days crunching numbers while he attended glamorous galas and dined with socialites who knew which fork to use for every course.
Just last weekend, Dimitri had been photographed at an exclusive event with a stunning princess from Salibar—the sister to a sheik that, according to the tabloids, was actively searching for a husband.
The princess he’d danced with had dark eyes and thick, dark hair along with a figure that would make any man drool.
Meanwhile, Giselle sat in her tiny office wearing thrift-store clothes two sizes too big for her, her hair was a mess because her father had forgotten his wallet that morning and she’d had to rush to his house to grab it so she hadn’t had time to pull her hair into its usual tidy bun.
Maybe if her father would stop drinking himself to sleep every night, he wouldn’t wake up in an alcohol-induced fog every morning and Giselle wouldn’t need to help him organize his life!
She exhaled sharply, pushing the thought away because Dimitri was still watching her.
The intensity of his presence made her feel exposed, like he could see through her oversized clothes and might even know about the naughty items beneath the frumpy outfit.
She cleared her throat. "I haven’t found anything yet," she admitted, glancing down at her notes. Her hand instinctively moved over the papers as if shielding them would make her feel less vulnerable. "I mean, I’ve found something, but I’m not sure what it is yet.
I need to track these numbers back to the shipment documents and—"
"It’s late,” he said, interrupting her. “Have you eaten since lunch?"
The abrupt change in topic threw her.
She blinked. "What?"
"Food," he repeated.
Her stomach let out an embarrassingly loud growl.
Dimitri chuckled and the change transformed his features, softened them ever so slightly. He was an incredibly handsome man, but when he smiled…goodness!
Giselle wrapped a hand around her stomach, trying to silence it. "I’m fine," she lied.
"You’re not fine," he countered, a spark of amusement dancing in his eyes. "And you’re working overtime to help me."
He pushed away from the doorframe and stepped farther into her office, his size making the space feel smaller.
"Shut down for the night, grab your purse, and let’s go."
Her lips parted slightly in confusion. "Go?"
"Out to dinner. I’m going to take care of you, since you aren’t taking proper care of yourself." His dark eyes gleamed with amusement. "Is that a foreign concept?"
Heat rushed to her cheeks.
When was the last time someone had taken care of her? Not in the casual, meaningless way, but in a way that actually mattered.
And “out to dinner”? Did that mean to a restaurant? She hadn’t been out to eat in years. The last time had been in college when a guy had taken her to a fast-food place for tacos. It had been terrible.
However, she wasn’t comfortable with the idea of the owner of her company taking her out to eat. That wasn’t professional, was it?
"You don’t need to take me out, sir. I’m just doing my job."
Something flickered in his expression, unreadable but undeniable. His jaw tightened slightly.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he leaned down just a fraction. Not enough to invade her space, but enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him.
"Giselle," he said, his voice lower now, edged with quiet authority. "When I say, I’m taking care of you, it’s not a request."
She swallowed hard and looked up, losing herself in his eyes. For a moment, she forgot how to breathe. Then, she nodded slowly.
"Good," he murmured.
And just like that, he turned and left her office, as if he already knew she would follow.
She sat frozen for a long moment, her skin still tingling from his presence.
He poked his head back in the doorway and lifted a dark eyebrow, the movement subtle but potent.
For a moment, the sharp angles of his face, combined with that quiet, assessing stare, reminded her of Cary Grant—if Cary Grant had been rougher, more dangerously handsome, and infinitely more intriguing. And with a sexy beard!
Hopefully, without the hallucinogenic addiction.
"Do you always work until eight o’clock at night?" His voice was smooth, but there was an underlying edge to it, like the question alone annoyed him.
Giselle stared back at him, then shrugged. "Yes."
His mouth tightened, his dissatisfaction clear, but he waved a hand dismissively. "We’ll discuss it over dinner. How about pasta? Or would you prefer steak? Seafood?"
She shook her head quickly. "No, really, sir. You don’t need to—"
"Giselle."
Her name rolled off his tongue so naturally, sending a shiver down her spine, delicious in a way she had no business enjoying.
"You’re going to shut down that computer," he continued, calmly but firmly. "Grab your purse and come with me. There’s an excellent restaurant just across the street. We’ll sit down, relax, have a drink and dinner, and you’re going to tell me about yourself."
He paused slightly, holding her gaze captive.
The intensity in his dark eyes locked her in place, made her pulse pound in her ears. There was something knowing in his expression, something focused—like he was already drawing her into his world, whether she wanted to be there or not.
"Any questions or concerns?" he asked.
He didn’t give her a chance to reply.
"Good. Let’s go."
The command sent a jolt through her, and before she fully processed what was happening, she had jumped to her feet and collected her purse.
Then—damn it—she remembered her computer.
With shaking fingers, she logged out of the accounting system, trying to steady her breathing as she double-checked the screen. It took her a moment to make sure everything was locked, then she sighed and turned back to him.
When she met his gaze again, there was something different in his expression. An unexpected eagerness. For a heartbeat, she could only stare. He shifted, turning to lead the way.
Still, Giselle hesitated. "Sir, really, I have food at home. I prepare all my meals ahead of time, so I can just get home and pop one in the microwave."
He was already shaking his head before she finished speaking.
"Earlier today, you told me you’d discovered someone was stealing from me," he pointed out, his voice dropping to a murmur. "Therefore, you will come with me, and you’ll tell me everything I want to know."
He turned and walked off down the hallway. Giselle jumped slightly, and scurried after him.
The office had emptied out hours ago. The silence was thick, broken only by the distant hum of a vacuum and the faint murmur of the night cleaning crew.
The overhead lights cast elongated shadows across the marble floors, stretching toward the glass-walled conference rooms, where the city lights flickered in the distance.
It was so quiet. Giselle was acutely aware of the man walking beside her.
Dimitri De Luca was big. He moved with the kind of effortless control that suggested he could turn lethal in a heartbeat.
His presence was a solid weight in the empty corridor, his broad shoulders and imposing frame making the space feel smaller.
And then, her attention caught on something. A scar. Not just one, but several. One at the edge of his ear, another across the back of his hand. Faint, but unmistakable. This was a man who had seen violence. Who had survived it.
When she glanced up at his face again, that penetrating look had returned. Not threatening. Not angry.
Just… watching. Waiting. Studying her as if she was something he wasn’t quite sure what to do with. The air between them crackled with unspoken energy.
And as they stepped into the elevator, the doors sliding shut with a soft ding, she realized something: she should feel uneasy.
But for some reason… she didn’t.
As they stepped into the elevator, the space closed in around them, intensifying the awareness simmering between them. The air felt heavier, charged with awareness.
She noticed the scars again. Perhaps they should have repulsed her, a reminder that this man’s life was violent. But they didn’t. Instead, they fascinated her.
They whispered a story, revealing that Dimitri De Luca was more than just a man with power and wealth, that he was more than a nepo baby who had inherited his wealth and position.
He was hardened by experience, seasoned by it.
He had fought for it, clawed his way up from the streets, and now stood at the top, a man who had earned every ounce of respect that came with his name.