Jeannie Holmes - The Mammoth Book of Futuristic Romance

As if I hadn’t already processed the fact that he was far too attractive for my peace of mind.

His eyes widened, and he glanced at our clasped hands.

I took marginal comfort in knowing I wasn’t the only one affected.

“Unexpected,” he murmured.

“No kidding,” I said.

His gaze flicked to my face and he frowned. “Explain.”

I awarded him the same bland look I turned on my high-school students when they gave me the “what assignment?” line. “I teach physics. Not chemistry.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement before he wiped all expression from his face.

“Ms Selkirk,” he said in a smooth, rich voice with just a hint of dialect.

The sound shot another burst of “Hey, stupid, he’s sexy” hormones into my already overly-aware body.

“Won’t you have a seat?” He nodded at the sofa. “May I offer you something to drink?”

Needing both the distraction and the fortification, I asked, “Is there real cream to go with that coffee?”

He stepped in beside me, and tucked my hand – the one he’d never released – into the crook of his elbow to escort me across the room. “I believe so,” he said with the air of someone who knew precisely that no one would dare bring coffee into his office without real cream in the frosty creamer.

He released me.

Mr Carrollus sat in the armchair and poured coffee for both of us.

I sank to the edge of the sofa, and settled my briefcase against the coffee table. A surreptitious glance around the room assured me that the receptionist had vanished. I was alone in a room with a man who made me feel small and dainty as he filled my china cup with steaming coffee.

“Thank you for taking the time to meet, Ms Selkirk,” he said. “The holiday season is meant to be shared with family.”

I met his eye, my chest tightening, and my hand frozen near the creamer.

“Ms Selkirk?”

Damn it. I pulled in a breath, but couldn’t force my hand to move. At least I couldn’t feel it shaking.

“No family,” I managed to say in an even tone. “Just me.”

He studied me with a gaze that felt as if it might be burning through my skull to get a look inside.

I couldn’t break free.

“Yes,” he murmured. “My HR department is thorough. I believe I saw mention of an accident.”

I found myself nodding. Since my folks had died in a car crash two years ago, I’d felt as if most of me had shriveled and died, too. Holidays were a sharp reminder of the fact that I’d buried my heart with my family’s remains.

“I’m sorry,” he said. The flicker of pain in his eyes told me he meant it.

I blinked. My eyes stung. It was beyond time to change the subject.

“Mr Carrollus—” I said as I poured the cream.

“Trygg,” he countered.

I paused, mid-stir, to glance at him.

“If you don’t mind, I prefer a more informal approach to interviews,” he said. “Your résumé is intriguing, but it doesn’t tell me who you are. I’d like you to call me Trygg.”

So that was it. Put the interviewee at ease and find out whether or not she could play well with others.

Psychological battery. Been there, done that . I should have recognized the set-up.

I nodded, but couldn’t talk myself into standing down the alarms still jangling my nerves. “Trygg,” I repeated, straightening my cup and saucer. I studied him a moment.

He held still, his expression bland as if he were allowing me to look my fill.

“Scandinavian,” I said. “Isn’t it?”

“It means ‘true’,” he said, nodding. “My mother’s choice, though I never understood why. The family isn’t Scandinavian. Your name. Finlay. Celtic?”

“Yes.” I took a sip of coffee. My toes curled in delight. “Oh, that’s excellent. Bonus points on the coffee.”

He lifted one jet eyebrow. “Do I need bonus points?”

“Depends on the answer to my original question.”

“What question is that?”

“The one I didn’t get to ask because we got sidetracked by names,” I replied.

His gaze followed my every move as if he were a cat and I the mouse he was thinking of pouncing upon.

The thought curdled the cream in my mouth. I swallowed hard and set the cup and saucer down with a clatter. So much for my poker face.

“Why did your assistant trip over himself to not call you Commander Carrollus?”

“I am active reserve,” he admitted. “This is a separate venture, however, reporting to no one but me. I will not have this venture flown into the ground by political wrangling and financial mismanagement. It’s too vital to me and to my . . . to the people with a stake in this endeavor.”

I found myself nodding. That felt true. It was the first unvarnished statement I’d gotten from him, even if he had stumbled over not saying “my investors”.

“Okay,” I said. “Where does that leave us? If I had to guess, I’d say you had this office staged today.”

Interest gleamed in his gaze again, and he leaned closer. “What makes you say that?”

The question felt like a caress. I jumped and had to fumble for my train of thought. “It’s too clean.

There’s not a speck of dust on anything. It doesn’t smell right. Without looking, what’s on the shelf just over my head?”

He grinned. The corners of his eyes crinkled.

My heart skipped a beat.

“You do think on your feet, don’t you?” he murmured, smile dying as he took my hand again. He lifted it and pressed his lips against my fingers. “Well done. I have no idea what’s on any of these shelves.”

Heat rushed into my face. “Trygg.” It came out a croak. I cleared my throat and tried again. “My hand, Trygg. I need that.”

“Do I frighten you, Finlay?”

Of course he did, but I’d eat that dusty, dry science brief I’d been reading in his fake reception area before I’d admit it.

A wave of dizziness slammed me. I held my breath and frowned, willing it to pass. A buzz filled my ears and I noticed two things at once.

One, Carrollus watched me far too intently, an odd, avid gleam in his eyes. Two, he hadn’t touched a drop of his coffee.

Fear burned a path straight down my throat to my stomach. I tried to jump to my feet and ended up wavering to them instead.

“You unbelievable bastard,” I gasped. I grabbed the spoon. I’d had two sips. Maybe I could stick the handle of the spoon far enough down my throat to trigger a gag reflex. My numb fingers refused to cooperate.

The spoon hit the carpet with a thunk .

I bolted for the door, except, of course, I moved as if I waded through hip-high mud.

Carrollus snaked an arm around my waist.

“Oh, no,” he murmured at my ear.

He swept me into his arms as if I weighed nothing at all.

I couldn’t protest.

Heat joined the dizziness. I felt the fine sheen of sweat on my face. My breath wheezed when I drew it.

“Lieutenant!” he snapped at the receptionist.

“Sir?”

“Alert the medical team,” Carrollus ordered. “She’s having an adverse reaction.”

He’d poisoned me, yet he had the gall to sound concerned.

“Aye, sir.”

“Hang on,” he muttered to me. “I’m not willing to lose you, Finlay Selkirk.”

Something dinged. Doors opened. He stepped in.

I groaned. “God, not an elevator.” An insipid muzak version of “Jingle Bells” on sax.

“Close your eyes,” he urged. “It’ll help.”

It sounded like a good idea.

He pressed cool lips to my brow.

Surprise and a tendril of pleasure pushed back the dizziness for a split second.

“My everlasting regret is that I can’t have you myself,” he said in a voice that led me to believe I wasn’t supposed to hear him.