Out of Bounds (2 page)

“Ms. Donovan, you are on the guest list.” He sounded surprised but covered it by handing her badge back to her. “This way, please.” He walked toward an elevator tower. He pressed his thumb against a security pad and the door opened.

“Have a nice evening.”

The doors swished shut. Sabra looked for the floor buttons, but it was an express car that only went to the top floor. She turned around and watched the street below getting farther away as the car lifted her toward the roof. Faint music filled the car, some piano rendition of the Beach Boys that did little to calm her racing heart. There had never been a better opportunity to make a great impression. The owner of Nektosha never ventured into the analyst department. She was pretty sure he never set foot on any of the lower floors of his own tower—make that West Coast tower. He had more than one. Unlike a lot of megacorporations, Nektosha was owned completely and solely by its creator. Tarak Nektosha had been busy carving out a position for his company among the global elite and he was doing it without a board of trustees.

According to the scuttlebutt, he liked people who thought outside the box and that was a major part of her choice in working for Nektosha. There was opportunity in the company that the old guard would never extend to a gal like her. When you weren’t someone’s niece, most of the big dogs didn’t have advancement opportunities unless you were willing to trade sexual currency for it.

Sabra wanted advancement, but she wanted it because she was good enough at her desk, not on it.

Crude, but still true. Anyone who tried to dismiss the part office liaisons played in promotions was blowing smoke.

The next couple of hours might just define her career, but it felt a lot like opening a volume of Shakespeare. You had fifty–fifty odds of landing in a tragedy.

The doors swished open, revealing a semi-lit entryway. The sound of running water filled her ears as she walked past an indoor fountain complete with koi.

“Welcome. May I take your bag?” A small Asian girl glided up from her post near a small coat closet. Her black suit blended in with the lower light level. She offered a small slip of paper in exchange. Sabra handed her purse over, trying to mask her awkwardness. Being waited on took more practice than most people were willing to admit. She slipped the ticket into her pocket before squaring her shoulders and doing her best to look as though she was perfectly at ease in the high-priced reception.

A large double doorway led the way to the roof gardens the towers were named for. The air was balmy and not too hot now that the sun had set. The sound of the surf mixed with the melody of a string quartet playing discreetly in the corner. The gardens were a mass of greenery and blossoms. The scent of fresh plants mixed with the sea breeze and the flicker of candles lighting the tables.

Posh. Very posh.

A waiter offered her a tray full of drinks. She selected one because it was something to do. Men looked up when she passed, giving her a quick sweep from head to toe before dismissing her.

Her suit didn’t scream money and this was a wolf-pack event.

She lifted her glass to her lips and took a sip. The wine was sweet and she peered closer at it. She should have realized the smaller wine glass wasn’t to control the amount of alcohol being consumed.

Ice
wine.

Of course. It was expensive and unique, like everything else at the event. Off to one side was a buffet table. Even the food being offered was beautiful—little petit fours and amazing looking appetizers. A chef stood behind it, overseeing the staff.

Maybe her garter belt wasn’t so out of place.

She smiled and took another sip of her wine. Ice wine was out of her budget, at least for another few years, so she was going to enjoy it.

At the far end of the rooftop, several tables sat with colorful silk scarves draped over them. There was even a velvet ribbon tied across in front of them, just waiting for a cutting ceremony. A photographer with a press badge dangling across his chest from a lanyard was working the lens to get a good shot of the waiting tables. Flashes popped from various other locations around the rooftop as the press gathered their shots of the important people assembled. Some of them had red carnations pinned to their lapels to warn the press they didn’t want their pictures taken. Off in the shadows, security men in dark suits watched to ensure the press behaved.

“You are being a bully.”

Sabra froze, looking over the rim of her glass. The woman speaking was a sex kitten, from her teased hair to the six-inch heels on her feet. Gold and diamonds sparkled around her throat, and her obviously surgically enhanced cleavage was on prominent display.

“I look wonderful,” she insisted.

“You look like an escort. A high-priced one, but a paid companion nonetheless.”

The voice was dark.

Sabra lowered her glass, glaring at the contents. Maybe she didn’t have the tolerance for ice wine. No one had a “dark” voice. Unless you were five years old and listening to a bedtime story.

Or reading a gothic romance novel.

“The press is here. I can’t have you on my arm in that scrap of a skirt. It’s a good thing you wax.”

Yeah, his voice was dark and razor-sharp. A shiver worked its way down her back in response. It was immediate and uncontrollable.

Yeah, and misplaced. The guy is being crass.

Even if he had an excellent point about how short the skirt in question was.

“This is high fashion. I spent a fortune,” she whined, her lips pushing into a pout.

“Of my money, so you aren’t out anything but time.” His tone was icy and ruthless. The candlelight flickered over devil-dark hair that was longer than most office tycoon’s. It brushed his collar and reminded her of a Japanese anime character. It was just long enough to be sexy without looking unkempt. He suddenly moved, turning to catch her in his sights.

She should have turned away or looked away or done something other than lock gazes with him, but time froze—and along with it her wits. His eyes were midnight black and his face chiseled out of stone. In another time, he would have worn a headband and long braids, but the Armani suit did nothing to make him appear civilized.

He wasn’t tame, and there was something in his gaze that told her he liked it that way.

The shiver that rippled across her skin said she liked it too.

Her lips went dry and she curled them in to moisten them. Something flickered in his eyes before he took a step toward her.

“You’ll do it with me.” The sentence was uttered to her with pure intent. But the sex kitten grabbed his arm.

“
I
am doing it with you,” she hissed.

Sabra shook her head, trying to dislodge the arousal dulling her wits. It was intense and red-hot, threatening to make a fool out of her because she couldn’t seem to recall anything else. The man peeled his companion’s fingers off his arm, granting Sabra a second to collect her wits.

Shit!
She could feel the insides of her thighs getting moist. The tiny set of panties that went with the garter belt did nothing to mask the scent of her arousal.

“Good night, Anastasia. I don’t want you seen like that.”

He brushed past Anastasia, and her face turned red and she looked as though she was going to lunge at him, but an Asian man in a dark suit slid smoothly into her path. There was a muffled word of profanity before Sabra looked up at the man bearing down on her.

He swept her from head to toe twice. Heat teased her cheeks and flowed right down to her clit. She was sure she’d never been given the once-over so thoroughly before. At least she’d never felt as if someone’s gaze had stripped her. It unleashed a sense of vulnerability that refused any attempts to dislodge it. The fact that she was a modern woman meant nothing in the face of the pure sexual magnetism he displayed.

All she really wanted him to notice was that she was a woman.

“You’ll do nicely,” he announced, one pace in front of her.

He plucked the wineglass from her distracted fingers and handed it off.

“Excuse me?” she managed to thrust past her frozen lips.

“Sabra Donovan, analyst, master’s in biofuels. Correct?”

It sounded as if he only added the last word as a courtesy. There was certainly nothing questioning in his sharp gaze. He knew exactly what he wanted and intended to get it. The pure abundance of confidence was mesmerizing.

“I think you have me at a disadvantage,” she muttered.

Pleasure flashed in his eyes. His lips twitched up just a tiny fraction, almost too faint to measure, but she saw it. In fact, she was sure he wanted her to notice. He wasn’t the sort who apologized for anything.

Arrogant
too.

He was—and completely unashamed of it.

“I’m your boss.”

She stepped back, something inside of her recoiling. The hot curl of excitement was lingering in her clit, so she wasn’t really sure what it was she objected to, only that complete submission was out of the question. It wasn’t a conscious thought, but something she felt on a very personal level.

His eyes narrowed, somehow becoming more sensuous, more determined.

“Excuse me,” he offered softly. “Tarak Nektosha, your employer.”

She was a complete idiot. He wasn’t Japanese; he was Apache. Lawless, savage, and exactly like the line of vehicles his company produced.

“I require someone to help me cut the ribbon,” he clarified.

“Oh…” She glanced back at the waiting table. The press was positioned near it, their hands on their cameras; more than one was casting an impatient look toward Tarak. “Sure.”

As far as a professional response went, it lacked a lot. But saying “yes, sir” just seemed too submissive. A large part of her flatly rebelled. It was a system-wide rejection, one she was sure she hadn’t experienced before in her life. No man had ever unleashed such a bundle of emotions inside her.

Or so much heat.

Get
a
grip, girl…

And fast too. It was her frickin’ boss.

He caught her hand. The contact was jarring. She flinched, pulling free. His lips curled, just a tiny amount, flashing his teeth at her before he reached out and renewed his grasp on her hand. His gaze settled on her lips for a moment, causing her breath to catch.

“They are ready for you, Mr. Nektosha,” one of the dark-suited bodyguards informed him quietly.

“Of course.”

He stepped forward, settling her hand on his arm. His shoulder rose above her own as he swept her toward the table. She felt petite and scoffed at her own foolishness.

She was wearing a garter belt for Christ’s sake.

But
you’re trembling like a virgin.

“Smile at them…” he leaned down and whispered. “And at me.”

He kept a firm hand on top of hers as he guided her toward the tables. The distance seemed to triple as the camera lenses were pointed at her. The flashes popped, blinding her to everything but her escort. Everyone beyond them was just a shape in the shadows.

Tarak was right at home. He strode down the path, nodding at those waiting to see his performance. The quartet played a fanfare as they arrived at the velvet ribbon. He eased her into place, the position of his hand perfect. He just seemed to know how to touch her. One hand cupping her hip and slipping across her lower back to gently push her in front of him. Once he was behind her, she shivered as his size dwarfed her. He caught her hip once more, his fingers spreading out over her belly and securing her in place. The breeze coming off the ocean was cool, but she could feel his body heat against her back. She was still caught in the hold of arousal. Her clit was throbbing and whining for attention.

Her timing couldn’t have been worse.

“Thank you. I’d like to introduce one of Nektosha’s most valuable assets, Ms. Sabra Donovan, who has kindly agreed to make these pictures so much more appealing by being in them.” His tone was full of authority and edged with control.

It was too damned sexy for the setting. Her nipples contracted, leaving her grateful for the practical cut of her suit that hid them. A bright smile was plastered to her face as the flashes popped. Laughter surrounded them as a girl stood nearby with a silver platter. She lifted it up so Tarak could pick up the golden scissors resting on it. He held them out to her and she took them with another little shiver. She’d never responded to a man in such a way.

It had to be the situation.

Which meant she needed to get a grip. Quick.

She concentrated on gripping the scissors and getting them into position. Tarak settled a hand on the small of her back, sending her heart racing again. She closed the scissors quickly and the ribbon snapped. Relief flowed through her but left something bitter behind.

Like regret. Or disappointment.

The waiters grasped the silk scarves and unveiled the collection. Nestled on the tabletop were models of the new line of vehicles. The press surged forward to get shots as the guests applauded.

Tarak brushed her back again. This time it was a longer stroke and slower, as if he were savoring the contact.

Holy
shit!
The man knew how to touch a woman.

“Well done,” he whispered against her ear. The tone was steady and controlled. Too controlled really, because it made her tremble again. He pressed his hand against her back before gently moving it in a small circle. “Interesting reaction, Sabra. One I’d like to explore later.”

She turned to look at him, but he cupped her hip and turned her back to face the crowd. “We’re still on stage.” His hold was strong and insistent, sending a crazy spike of need through her. It tingled and burned a path straight into her pussy, that single grip of his promising her a man who knew how to please a woman. It was savage but too damn hot to ignore completely. There was an undeniable feeling of vulnerability moving through her as she sensed just how little control she’d have in his embrace. He leaned close, brushing up against her body for a long moment. It was electrifying. She had to fight the urge to lift her bottom and brush up against his cock. It was a battle not to, because she wanted to know what it felt like. He leaned down and took a deep breath next to her ear. The skin on her neck beaded with goose bumps and begged for a kiss.