Chapter 4: The Pressure Cooker

​Sebastian

As we navigated the streets of Manhattan in search of, well, Long Island, the tinted glass isolated us in a soundproof, leather covered crypt as we made our way through the city's traffic.

Clara was in the back seat next to me, and she was all business. Her laptop lay in her lap, and her fingers had a steady rhythm as they hit the keys. I hadn't heard her say a word since we crossed the East River and she didn't look around except for her screen or out the side window.

She had constructed a wall. A thick impenetrable fortress that will keep me out.

She smelled like orange blossoms and fresh rain and every time she sat six inches from me, I wanted to destroy it with my bare hands.

I pivoted slightly so that my face was to my own window and forced myself to look at the dossier on my cellphone. The Hampton retreat was no vacation, it was a war zone. The head of the syndicate that drove me into hiding was Richard Vane, who was attending as an institutional investor. He was blood-thirsty, he was suspicious and he was looking for a weak point in my defenses.

Had I looked at Clara for even a micro-second, Vane would have put two and two together.

​"Mr. Thorne."

Her voice was loud over the noise of the engine. Cool. Controlled.

​"Yes, Ms. Mercer?"

She tapped her screen, and then looked over at me, “Mr. Vane's assistant just sent me an updated guest list.” Her brown eyes had become cold and hard like the stones she could toss at her father. He has asked me to have a private dinner with him tonight in the west wing library before the general cocktail hour. Should I decline?"

​My jaw tightened. Vane wants to check me out early.

I said aspergeris, in a deadpan voice. "Bring a notebook to the room and be sure to be there.

Clara took a breath and her fingers hovered over the keys. Do you want your executive assistant there when you're in a high-stakes negotiation?

I wanted someone who would pay attention," I said, turning my head to meet her gaze, "I want someone who would pay attention. Vane loves to talk in circles and to look for weak points. You don't miss anything. Unless you feel you can't handle it?"

It was a very low dollar lure and we both knew it.

In Clara's eyes there was that irrestistible, dangerous flame I loved so much. She did NOT flinch. She took her head closer to me and spoke to me in a voice which was so cold that neither the driver nor anyone else could hear it.

I can take whatever you can handle, Mr. Thorne. I've been through worse men than Richard Vane!

It was a direct hit to his ribs with the jab. Worse men than me.

Then I looked at her and the air between us seemed to turn into a furnace. I looked a moment to her lips, then pulled my eyes back up to her.

I grumbled, "We'll see," my throat constricted.

The car ascended the long, twisting driveway of the Thorne Estate, a huge old stone house overlooking grey, crashing waves of the Atlantic Ocean. It was just beginning to rain, heavy rain falling, splashing against the dark rain-stained windows.

The driver in hurry rushed up to open the door and put an umbrella over us as we stepped out into the damp ocean air. Clara walked on the wet cobblestones, making her heels click against the wet ground.

She incorrectly determined the pitch of the driveway. She suddenly twitched her ankle, and went off to the side, dropping her laptop bag to the ground.

​Instinct completely obliterated seven years of conditioning.

Before I knew it, my arm extended and I grabbed her around the waist and pulled her tight against me. She landed in my jacket and her little hand just reached out to my arm for balance.

​Time stopped.

Around the black umbrella the rain fell down but not us. She was thrust flat against me, and her breath was quick and caught in a sharp, helpless intake of breath. Her head rose and her broad, dark eyes fixed on me, a mere few inches away.

My heart pounded against my ribs as if it were a trapped animal. The heat of my hand on her hip burned through her, my fingers clinging to the gentle curve of her hip. I could feel her quick beating pulse next to her neck.

The CEO was missing for three incredible and agonizing seconds. The mask slipped.

My thumb toyed with her hip through the coat, my face as close to her as a starving man's face, taking in her with the raw, desperate hunger of a starving man.

“You have got me,” I breathed in the quiet, low voice of the boy who once caught her when she stumbled on the dorm stairs, "I’ve got you, I got you.”

Clara stopped breathing, her lips starting to move but unable to move them. Her eyes were angry, but for a split second, pure confusion and longing seemed to jolt through her with a jolt.

​"Julian..." she whispered.

The word came like a whip and broke the cold reality back into place.

I drew my arm back, as if I had been burned, and retreated to the shade of the umbrella and straightened my cuffs of the jacket. Before the tear in the mask had time to spread, the cold, ruthless mask closed back over my face.

Watch your step, Ms. Mercer," I said, my voice reverting to a lifeless ice tone. You don't work for me for being clumsy.

I felt like I slapped Clara! A brief moment of softness was immediately followed by one of deadly, cold fury. She straightened her coat, clutched her laptop bag and glared at me like she wanted to rip my throat out.

It's never going to happen again, sir," she spit out.

On she went, turning her back on me, and marching with a firm step straight up the grand stone steps into the estate, and I stood there, in the pouring rain, and wanting to tear the world apart.