Devilishly Wicked Read Free

before she had to deal with him? The insincere flirting that still managed to make her stupid, wayward heart race was way too cruel a start to a Monday morning.
    The little dog she still held in her arms squirmed, and she realized she was holding it too tight in her nervousness. She loosened her hold, stroking the dog’s soft fur, and pulled in a deep breath, telling herself, as she did every day, that she could handle this. Handle him. And handle her utterly juvenile reaction to him.
    Slowly, she turned to find her boss, Tristan McIntyre, standing only inches from her. It was something he always did. She suspected it was only because he knew it made her uncomfortable. She automatically took a step back.
    He smiled crookedly, again making her think he knew full well what he was doing to her. And he was enjoying it.
    His eyes, the greenest gaze Georgia had ever seen, like new leaves in spring or freshly mown grass, so green that she often thought they couldn’t possibly be real, moved over her.
    He raised a dark eyebrow, that smirking little smile still in place.
    “You’ve gone with yet another interesting ensemble today, Peaches.” He, of course, pronounced ensemble with a French accent. Pretension was as natural to him as breathing. And stupidly, she even found that attractive.
    Georgia never knew if his comments were a compliment or an insult, but she took her usual stance and tried to accept it gracefully.
    “Thank you, Mr. McIntyre.”
    He smiled again, this time a little wider. “When will you ever just call me Tristan?”
    God, he loved to toy with her, but she again refused to give him the response he wanted.
    As it turned out, he made answering unnecessary. His green gaze moved to the little dog in her arms.
    “Why do you have that mutt?”
    “Ms. White asked me to—”
    “Ms. White should not be asking you to do anything. You no longer work for her. You work for me.”
    “I understand,” she said, although she really wasn’t sure how she could disregard Finola White’s demands. Finola White was still Georgia’s superior, at least around here, and Georgia wasn’t about to challenge that. Finola White could still be scary and mean. But it was best just to agree with Tristan right now.
    Play the game. Play the game .
    She leaned down to place the dog on the floor. The little animal scampered away, disappearing under her desk. Smart boy. She wished she could slip away and make herself scarce, too.
    When she straightened, she got the feeling Tristan’s gaze had been on her rear end, but she couldn’t be sure. Still, that shivery feeling prickled her skin and made it hard for her to swallow.
    But she cleared her throat and managed to find her voice.
    “Do you have the lists of daily duties ready for me, sir?”
    He studied her for a moment, those green eyes of his gazing over her slowly, making her feel that she wanted to shift under his scrutiny. To move farther away. But she stood fast on her red-patent, dolly platform heels.
    “Yes, I actually left it on your desk. It looks like a relatively light day.”
    Georgia would have laughed if she wasn’t so shaken. There was no such thing as a light day when it came to working for HOT! —even under Tristan McIntyre.
    Under Tristan McIntyre. She felt herself blush at her own off-color train of thought.
    Yikes, Georgia, get a grip.
    He took a step toward her, and despite herself, Georgia crossed her arms in front of her. It was a not-so-subtle barrier between them.
    Tristan raised an eyebrow, giving her an almost admonishing look; then he moved past her. His broad shoulder just barely brushed hers as he walked by.
    “I’ll be in a meeting with Finola—or rather, Ms. White, if you need me.”
    Georgia didn’t turn to watch him leave. She didn’t need to; everything about the man was committed to her memory. There was the stylishly mussed cut of his dark hair, the gait of his walk, the way his expensive clothing fit his lean, muscular body