Four

      The next few days went by relatively smoothly as Ziara discovered the ins and outs of working for Sloan Creighton.

      He liked his coffee black with just a touch of sugar for sweetness, but he only drank it in the morning. After eleven, he switched to Mountain Dew. He came into the office around nine-thirty every morning, smelling of citrus and a spicy undertone after his daily game of racquetball. He paced while he dictated letters, his long legs performing for her benefit alone. While dreaming up new show ideas, he liked to lean back in his chair with his Gucci-clad feet propped on the edge of the desk.

      She often caught a glimpse of him standing at those floor-to-ceiling windows watching people walk by five stories below, deep enough in thought that she’d close the door behind her with extra force to remind him of her presence.

      She was getting to know him way too well.

      This new knowledge was uncomfortable, but not as uncomfortable as the suspicion that he was cataloging some things about her, as well. Those damn eyes! Not to mention the occasional spicy remark, like that spanking comment, that she pretended to ignore no matter how outrageous he got. The last thing he needed was encouragement.

      Today shattered the routine when Sloan hit the outer door like a bull. She hadn’t seen that controlled anger since his first day, that contained heat he’d wielded against Vivian like a fine-tuned weapon.

      “I’ve got a lot of calls to make, Ziara. Don’t bother me.”

      “Yes, Mr. Creighton,” she said reverting to formality in her confusion. She watched those long strides carry him into his office, the door slamming behind him. Definitely a good day to keep her head down and work on clearing the clutter from her desk.

      A few hours of muffled yelling and banging later, she decided now was probably a good time to escape. She made her way through the corridors to the design floor. Anthony met her a few feet in with a quick and quiet hug. He knew exactly why she was here. Leading her across the room, he showed her the new shipment of sample materials scattered across a large table.

      “Robert is very upset with me,” he said. “He thinks I’m a sellout.”

      Ziara glanced over his shoulder at the normally boisterous man now sitting quietly at a drafting table. “Why would he think that?” she asked, keeping her voice low to match Anthony’s.

      He gestured toward the materials. “Because I ordered these.”

      Ziara took in the mixtures of cream, pinks, barely there blues and an almost yellow color on a display table that was normally white, white and white. “Hmm. I can see where that would be a problem.”

      “I’ve tried to move Robert in new directions for years now, especially as grumblings surfaced from the buyers. But he just won’t listen.”

      “I don’t think Mr. Creighton will give him that option.”

      “Well, maybe he will succeed where I have failed.” With a sad smile, he wandered back across the room, leaving Ziara alone for what he knew was her favorite pastime.

      Picking up the nearby invoices, she started matching the materials on the table with the names and prices on the sheets of paper. She studied the fresh array of colors, the textures, drape and a myriad of other things.

      In an ideal world—where she would have had a supportive family, scholarships and no need to be her own sole support immediately after getting her GED—she would have been a supplier, searching out the finest materials, the best deals for the entire company in accessories, gemstones, beading, lining, everything. As it was, she could spend hours immersed in the research but allowed herself only small windows here and there. Luckily Anthony wasn’t threatened by her presence or interest, so he’d spent many a minute teaching her bits and pieces. Bless his heart.

      “Enjoying yourself?”

      Ziara froze, her hand buried in a pile of pink-tinged satin. To her knowledge, Vivian didn’t know about her little visits here. Yet it hadn’t taken Sloan a week to uncover her secret.

      “I’m sorry, Mr. Creigh—um, Sloan. Did you need me for something?”

      When he squeezed the back of his neck as if to relieve the tension gathered there, she couldn’t help but sympathize.

      “I definitely need you, Ziara. Don’t you know that?”

      Her gaze zeroed in on his face, searching for the intention behind the words. His bright blue eyes were now tired, but a shiver of awareness still snuck down her spine. No matter how he looked, no matter what he said, she felt he was bringing her to an awareness of him as a man—and herself as a woman.

      She murmured, “I’m happy to oblige.” Then cringed inside at the many ways her words could be misinterpreted. She straightened as he moved closer. He reached toward her stomach, which tightened in anticipation—but his hand bypassed her to explore the materials on the table beyond.

      A smoky-blue chiffon, almost gray, held his attention. “Very nice,” he murmured, the sound almost seductive, as though he was encouraging...something. He lifted the material, testing the feel, weight and drape.

      His hands fascinated her, the long fingers with their neatly clipped nails a sharp contrast to the fragile-looking material. But his eyes drew her, too. Those bright blues had darkened as if he were looking inward rather than at the material he handled so skillfully.