Forbidden Pleasure

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#u84ef1b0d-cb49-5b60-b1f8-1d009b75c186)

EMMA MATHISON WAS ready to get wild.

She reached up and undid the top button of her blouse.

Well, at least as wild as she could get for someone who was still in the office at eight o’clock on a Friday night.

At some point during the last three years, it had become the status quo—dinner at her desk, working until eight or nine, home to bed, and returning bright and early in the morning to do it all again. Emma couldn’t remember the last time she’d had plans. With a sigh, she leaned forward over the sink, inspecting herself in the harsh fluorescent lighting.

She barely recognized the professional-looking woman in the mirror. Blond chignon, subdued makeup, conservative blouse. The result of years spent focused everywhere but on herself—fighting to keep it together both financially and emotionally as Alzheimer’s stripped her beautiful, vivacious, hard-working mother of her memories, her personality and finally her life.

Emma touched her thumb to the simple silver band she wore on the middle finger of her right hand. Ana Petrović-Mathison’s most prized possession—her wedding ring. The loss was still a gut punch, but she made herself breathe through it. Her mother had worn it as a tribute to a life well-lived. Emma wore it now as a warning that life was short.

Fourteen-hour workdays that barely made a dent in the pile of medical bills. A roster of acquaintances on Facebook, but no real friends. A tiny apartment where no one waited to welcome her home. It scared Emma, the realization that if she suffered the same fate as her mother, if Alzheimer’s came for her one day, she had no memories to lose.

But there was still time to change that, to reclaim the woman she’d been before hospitals and hopelessness and grief had worn her down to a meek, biddable shell of her former self.

Starting now.

She tugged the bobby pins from her hair, shaking it out so it fell in loose waves down her back. Dropping the pins into her secondhand Michael Kors tote, she pulled out a tube of red lipstick. It had been an impulse purchase, the opposite of the pinks and nudes she usually opted for, but like the sexy lingerie hiding beneath her staid blouse and demure pencil skirt, it had been carefully chosen to keep her courage up.

And yeah, she thought, painting her lips ruby red before tucking the lipstick away, maybe the bathroom at Whitfield Industries was not the most auspicious place to launch her emancipation, but if she’d learned one thing over the last three years, it was that life wasn’t perfect.

If you waited for the stars to align, you missed out.

To that end, she readjusted her boobs to get every dollar’s worth of “lift and separate” out of her extravagantly priced bra and gave herself a final once-over.

With a deep breath, Emma stared at the daring, crimson-lipped woman reflecting back at her. The one who was about to go and seduce her boss.

“Time to make some memories,” she told her reflection.

She undid two more buttons on her blouse, grabbed her bag from the edge of the sink and then strode across the tiled floor with visions of the kick-ass, take-no-prisoners life she planned to live from here on out.

Despite her bathroom bravado, her pace slowed the closer she got to her target. Ignoring the sudden rush of nerves, Emma lifted her chin. “Do not chicken out now.” She said the words aloud, half admonishment, half plea. Then, with a deep, steadying breath, she forced herself to turn the corner and the object of all her lusty fantasies came into view.

Max Whitfield.

It was often said that the CEO of Whitfield Industries was as handsome as he was controlled. Mostly, Emma had taught herself to ignore it, to focus on work. But tonight, standing outside the glass wall of his office for the last time, she let herself notice everything about him.

He was tirelessly poring over the files on his desk. His charcoal-gray jacket hung on the back of his chair, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up his tanned forearms. He’d loosened his red silk tie enough to pop the top button of his collar. Behind him, the lights of Los Angeles twinkled like fallen stars, but he kept his head down and his back to the million-dollar view. His modern, masculine office was lit only by his desk lamp and his computer screen, his preferred lighting scheme once the sun had set.

Max had always reminded her of a panther—beautiful and predatory and not to be underestimated. It wasn’t just his ebony hair and amber eyes, but the way he moved, lithe and graceful. Purposeful. No wasted movement. The constant threat of danger, even in repose.

He was the kind of man who made a woman wonder—when she unwrapped him, would she find that slick, urbane control went all the way to the core, or did it hide something more dangerous, something desperate to be unleashed?

In her fantasies, she vacillated between the two extremes—sometimes imagining him as a fiery, insatiable lover, sometimes ice-cold and bossy, controlled throughout.

And tonight, she intended to find out which version of Max was real.

She set her tote on his admin assistant’s desk—Sherri had left over an hour ago—and pulled out her employment contract. Here goes nothing. Squaring her shoulders, she stepped forward.

Max looked up sharply when she knocked, but the tightness in his jaw faded when he recognized her, and he motioned for her to enter. With a glance at his watch, he added, “I didn’t realize it was so late. What can I do for you, Emma?”

She covered her disappointment at his lack of reaction to her new look with a smile she hoped was more come-hither than professional.

His desk wasn’t ornate—the clean, simple lines of black onyx had always struck Emma as sleek and powerful, like the man who sat behind it. On a usual day, this would be the point where he launched into a rapid-fire series of orders, but tonight he said nothing, regarding her with the infamous poker face that Emma knew hid all manner of secrets.

She was careful not to let her hands shake as she set the contract on top of the files in front of him.

He ignored it, didn’t even glance down. Just stared at her from across the expanse of his desk, hypnotic golden eyes boring into hers with the intensity she’d come to associate with him. Max Whitfield didn’t do anything halfway.