He better not be a dick.

I'm waiting for my interview with the CEO of an upstart media company. From what I read about him in the Times on the subway here, he's a former tech guy, rich as hell, and an arrogant jerk.

"I see Blackmoir Publishing being the ultimate leader in genre fiction within three years," Tristan Black had told the paper. "Our competitors are failing. We're adopting new ways of bringing stories to readers. Fresh, exciting stories. Not the same old, same old. Every other company is just a house of cards."

See? A dick.

And I need that dick to give me a job. I twist my fingers together so hard that my knuckle pops.

The receptionist, one of those older, effortlessly well-put together women you see all over Manhattan with their cat fur-free sweater twinsets and perfectly ironed wool-blend skirts, looks up with an arched eyebrow.

"Sorry," I whisper.

Her frosted mauve lips form a tight smile. "No need to be nervous. Mr. Black will be free soon, and I'm sure your interview will go just fine."

It's not the interview I'm worried about. It's the fact I'm here at all.

The phone on the receptionist's desk buzzes.

"Yes, sir?" She pauses. "I'll send her in."

The receptionist stands up. "Please come with me, Ms. Amato."

Every tap of my scuffed black flats on the polished concrete floor is like a drumbeat of doom.

You. Have. No. Place. Here.

Get. Out.

She turns the sleek silver handle on a closed door and gestures. "Good luck, dear," she whispers.

I mumble thanks. Summoning all the confidence I can muster, I enter the room.

And lay eyes on a gorgeous man.

To say he's model-handsome would be a cliché, and I loathe clichés. But it's true. He's tall and broad shouldered, slim-hipped with long legs. Jet-black hair, a sprinkling of stubble that looks more fashionable than sloppy, and a prominent nose.

And those blue eyes — they're inquisitive. Sharp. Like they're looking through my heart, mind and soul. They're the color of rare sapphires, and glow against the expanse of dull, gray Manhattan sky outside his windows.

I remind myself not to trip, which I've been known to do when nervous.

"Miss Amato." I expect him to smile, at least a little, because that's what affable bosses do.

Mr. Tristan Black, the CEO of Blackmoir Publishing, clearly isn't an affable boss. Because he scowls. It would be sexy if I didn't need to win the guy over for a job.

I stop in front of his desk and extend my hand. Inside I wince. Am I supposed to shake hands first? Is there some gender-employee-boss handshake rule I don't know about?

Who knows? I've spent my professional life — which isn't long — at home, writing. I've never held an office job, a sad fact I hope Mr. Black overlooks.

"Please. Call me Sienna."

He nods once, then sits. I stand there, stupidly, staring.

"You may sit." He gestures to the leather chair. His fingers are long and tapered.

No please? No smile? No small talk? Despite his physical beauty, his attitude leaves me suddenly weary. Everything makes me tired these days, as if I'm far beyond my twenty-four years. I fight the urge to roll my eyes, but I desperately need this job.

I'd read where Blackmoir Publishing is the edgy upstart in the New York literary world, and I figure the company might take a chance on me.

He leans back in his chair. "Tell me about yourself."

I paste on a bright expression and make sure my voice doesn't wobble. "I'm twenty-four, graduated from CUNY-Brooklyn. That's where I was born and raised. I'm Italian. Only child. I love dogs. All animals, really. I read every day and..." I take in a breath, "I'm close with my mother. My father died when I was young. Oh, and I've hoped to work in publishing since I was small."

"Favorite book?"

I smile, genuinely. "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Of course."

He nods, and I detect a thoughtful expression in his eyes. "Tell me about your perfect day."

It registers that he has a slight British accent. I rake my teeth over my bottom lip and fight the urge to tear into my nails. "Wake up, have coffee, read the paper in bed. It would be raining."

"You enjoy the rain?"

"Yes. I like the moodiness, the melancholy. Then I'd go to a museum. The Met, probably, and wander around the Egyptian wing. Buy a hot cocoa on the way home, or sit in a diner somewhere. Then go home, take a hot bath and read for the rest of the evening."

His eyes widen and he leans in as if listening intently. "So you'd spend your perfect day alone?"

I scrunch up my mouth. "I mean, I don't have a boyfriend but if I did, and he wanted to join me, that would be nice, too."

Nice. That would be nice. Great use of language skills. He tilts his head, probably thinking I'm pathetic.

"If you could wake up tomorrow having gained one thing, what would it be?"

A cure for my mother's disease. But I'm sure he doesn't want to hear that, not in a job interview. I attempt to hold my head high. "A purposeful and creative career."

I had one of those but it dissolved almost overnight.

"So, Miss Amato," he pauses, as if daring me to correct him again, "I had a glimpse of your resume. I'm wondering why you bothered to apply for this position. It's obvious you're not qualified to be a secretary."

Well, this went sideways quick.

I clear my throat and sit on the edge of the leather chair, which is so big it makes me feel like a girl. "I believe my typing skills, and my knowledge of Microsoft Office and other software, will be an excellent fit for your company."

He leans back in his chair. "Really? I see you've listed those capabilities. But I can't find anything on this resume that shows me evidence of those skills. I see a college degree from CUNY, an editorial position at the school newspaper, and," he pauses while picking up my one-page resume and glancing at it with disdain, "a job at a pet store when you were probably in high school."

"I believe I'm well suited for this position," I assert.

"Are you challenging me?"

A frown crosses my face. Why's this guy so combative and bossy? Normally I'm mild mannered, but something in his tone brings out the Brooklyn in me.

"You didn't need to call me in for an interview if you didn't think I was qualified. You could've saved yourself the time. And saved me the taxi fare."

He chuckles, a low, lazy sound. With a maddening smirk on his face, he sits forward and turns to the sleek silver laptop that's open on his desk.

"Miss Amato. I summoned you here for an interview not because of this pathetic application you proffered, but because," he turns the laptop in my direction, "of this."

Oh, hell. My stomach plummets to the floor. My smiling face is on the laptop screen. Next to the book I wrote at the tender age of twenty-one. The only book, and it was a bestseller three years ago.

I'd assumed everyone in the publishing industry had forgotten about me and the book, since I haven't written a word since. And because my old publisher not only took the rights to my blockbuster erotic romance, but declared bankruptcy. It has tied my royalties up in court for years.

After paying all the bills, nothing was left. Which is why I need a job. Any job. Working from home in yoga pants and t-shirts as a fiction writer — even a best-selling one — isn't the experience most employers are looking for. I'd hoped Blackmoir publishing might take a chance, and I'd cobbled together a plausible-looking resume.

"Is that not you, Miss Amato?"

I stare dumbly at the photo of myself. I recall the day it was taken. The publisher hired a freelance photographer, and we'd met at the Brooklyn Bridge. I'd worn my favorite red dress, and as the photographer snapped the photos, I felt like I owned all of New York.

Mom loved those photos, too. She was so excited when she saw one in Publisher's Weekly a month later, accompanied by my name at the top of the bestseller list.

But as much as my books sold, my descent was equally quick. When I didn't put out another book, readers forgot about me. When my publisher went bankrupt, interest faded. My agent got out of the business, frustrated by the entire industry.

Now Mom's in an assisted living facility, I'm penniless, and the mojo that red dress brought is somewhere in the back of my closet. And I'm applying for a job as an entry-level secretary and sweating in a gorgeous CEO's office.

Brilliant.

"That is me, yes." I try to keep my voice even.

Mr. Black steeples his hands. Cocks his gorgeous head. Those flashing blue eyes bore into me. I squirm in my seat, wishing I hadn't worn tights on this early spring day. Sweat blooms on the backs of my knees.

I fight the urge to claw my skin off.

"Admittedly, I wasn't familiar with your work. My human resources manager was, however, and flagged your application, thinking I'd want to talk with you for the position. And then I read your novel and did some research." He pauses, for dramatic effect. "You intrigued me."

"Intrigued?" I squint.

"I believe your talents will be better spent elsewhere."

My hands ball into fists. "Is that for you to decide, though? I applied to be a secretary, and that's what I want."

A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. "I'm the CEO, so yes, it is for me to decide who I want to employ."

"Good point," I concede.

"Miss Amato, what if I were to hire you for a different position, something a little more, ah, cerebral? And pay you more."

His words make me sit up taller. A spark of hope flickers in my brain. "I would very much like that."

Now a true grin creeps across his face. "Excellent. I'd like to tell you what I have in mind."

It's difficult not to appear too eager. Perhaps he intends to put me in an editing job. Or appoint me to research non-fiction books. Yes, I could handle either of those. Maybe they have an in-house library, where I could assist and apprentice in some capacity. My eyes widen and my heart rate kicks into high gear.

He leans back in his chair, his body language expansively sensual. "I've been thinking about hiring a writer for this project for some time. It would be for a novel, a concept I've been toying with for years."

My shoulders slump. "Oh, no."

He holds his hand up. "Hear me out, Miss Amato."

I swallow the thickness in my throat and shake my head.

"I have a specific idea for a book which would involve, how shall I say, immersion in the subject. You, with your experience in the erotic romance genre, will be perfect, I believe."

His eyes flicker from my eyes to my lips and then trail to my chest. They remain there only for a beat, then snap back up. I feel my face burning with heat.

"I can't do that."

He tilts his head. "Why not? Writing-wise, it's an easy project. The rest of it will be character building, and even pleasurable, if I say so myself."

His low chuckle tugs at something deep inside me, but I ignore it.

"It's impossible. There's something inside me, some mental hang up—"

He shakes his head. "I don't need the sob story."

"But you asked why I didn't want the job," I say crossly.

He fixes me with a withering stare. I glare back.

"I'd like to offer you this position. You'd be free to use your real name, or write under an assumed name, like a ghostwriter. I think you will be excellent. After reading your book and as many interviews with you as I could find, and now that I've seen you, I've decided. I want you."

We stare at each other, the air between us growing thick and electric.

"I want you for this job, Miss Amato."

I shake my head. "Perhaps you didn't hear what I said. I have writer's block. I haven't written a word of fiction in years. I took three days to write that ten-line cover letter."

Another long stare. "I will pay you top dollar."

"Trust me, Mr. Black. If I could write, I would. Or I'd accept your offer."

"I think you should try it."

I narrow my eyes. "No."

"Blackmoir Publishing needs a bestseller. As you probably know, we have published many well-regarded literary fiction titles. We're a boutique publisher and I'm looking to make more of a splash. You could be the person to give us that bestseller. Our company has an incredible marketing team-"

Now it's my turn to interrupt. "Then why don't you acquire manuscripts the old-fashioned way, through agents and submission?"

A grin unfurls on his face. "Miss Amato. This is a totally new concept. Something groundbreaking. Something salacious, and sexy."

It's possible my heart might burst from the sound of him saying the word sexy. Still, I can't tell if he's being condescending or bossy. Or both. Yeah, both. And is he making fun of the romance genre?

"There are millions of novelists dying for a publisher. You could choose literally anyone. Walk out on the street, throw a rock, find a writer."

"Funny." He smirks. "I'm looking for a specific person, to write a particular, controversial book." He says this slowly, like he's explaining a difficult concept to a five-year-old. "Stung was in the vein of what I'm looking for. And when I saw your photo, I felt a certain pull to you. I can't explain it, because I'm normally quite a rational person. A private person."

"I'm sure you are." I shake my head, shoving aside the thrumming of desire in my core. "But I don't think so. Sorry. I apologize for wasting your time."

I stand up, clutching my small Coach handbag. It was one of the few designer things I'd bought when I published my debut novel, and one of even fewer that I didn't sell online in the past month.

"Wait," he says in a commanding voice.

I stop in the middle of the room and turn in his direction. Maybe he's relenting and wants me to try out as the secretary. Please take pity on me.

"I'll pay you a five million dollar advance," he says, getting to his feet and walking toward me. "This is your decision, and I want you to enter it willingly. But I also need you to know the lengths I'm willing to go to have you."

Have me? He sure has an odd way of phrasing things. Must be the British English.

I swallow hard. Five million? That would be enough for... everything.

"I'm sorry," I mumble. "I don't have any ideas, I don't have words or plots or characters. I can't describe a thing, and I'm shit with dialogue. I'm dead inside, creatively."

My heart's pounding against my chest because he's standing so close. Good lord, he's tall. And he smells incredible, like spicy limes and caramel. My mouth waters.

"You need not have ideas. I will give you the plot and the story," he says. "Won't you at least be polite and hear more about proposal? I'd like to discuss it over drinks."

I look up into his deep blue eyes. My god, a woman could drown in those eyes. They flicker down my face, to my mouth. My gaze also drops. To his lips. I imagine him trailing those lips down my neck. Over my taut nipple. Past my belly button.

I shiver in a breath, affected by his presence.

And then he grins. While licking the side of his mouth. The move is so erotic, so salacious and bold, I flash hot. Is spontaneous combustion a thing? Because I might go up in flames right this second. I imagine him grabbing a fire extinguisher and spraying my charred remains with white foam.

"Five million," he murmurs, stepping a half-inch closer. My heart flops around and I press my hand to my breastbone. "We can negotiate a bonus, too, if you reach certain sales milestones. Although I believe you'll find the topic, ah, the plot, if you will, is a bonus."

I turn and scamper out. I'm shaking when I step into the crowded elevator. I can't tell if it's from the idea of writing a book, or the way Tristan Black's gaze made my insides vibrate with life, and my panties soaking wet.

____