"He's expecting you," says the receptionist. "Go right on down this hallway. And take the elevator up to the 17th Floor."

The receptionist's phone rings and she points down the white marble hallway before she answers it. I want to ask her what number Mr. Black's office is, but she's already distracted. His door will probably have his name on it, I figure.

Fine, is what I'm thinking. I can handle this. No problem. Most likely, he'll be some aloof executive who will run through his list of questions, loftily mutter a we'll—call—you—if—we're—interested dismissal, then send me on my merry way. I already know it's a phone call that'll probably never come. I'll wait a few days before reality sets in, while I meanwhile scour the internet for something slightly more realistic.

I walk down the hallway, and press the button for the elevator. It might be a private elevator. It's not the same one that accesses the lobby of the building.

The elevator swooshes up in that ultra—slick, barely—noticeable way, which gives me vertigo. I reach the 17th floor in about three seconds flat. I teeter unsteadily into a hallway, which has floor to ceiling windows and a killer view of the hazy L.A. skyline, all the way out to the ocean. I take a few seconds to let my equilibrium settle more or less back into place.

So the 17th floor is the top floor. There are a couple of swanky leather chairs bathed in sunlight.

Everything is so luxurious.

I can't help thinking this would be a perfect place to sit and read a good book while appreciating the view. But of course I'm here for one reason only. To kowtow to the mysterious Rafe Black.

There's only one door. So Mr. Black is the only executive with an office on the 17th floor. Well, he is the CEO, after all. And the founder of Downtown. And now that I think about it, Tess might have mentioned that he owns at least part of the building. Or maybe the whole thing.

I knock on the door.

And I wait. I check my phone. 4:27.

It might be a full minute before the door opens.

He stands there, wide—legged, silhouetted by the sunlight streaming in from behind him. And—whoa—if I was expecting an ordinary, work—addled managerial type, I was sorely mistaken. Hot doesn't even begin to cover it. In fact, it takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to … just how gorgeous Rafe Black actually is.

He's tall, and big. His dark hair is thick and more unruly than you might expect from a CEO. He's wearing an extremely well—cut suit but doesn't seem entirely at ease in it, as though it constricts a barely—controlled wildness that's a definite part of his vibe.

"Mr. Black?" My question comes out breathy and cautious.

His eyes are a deep shade of dark, smoldering blue and have a glint in them that's kind of … electrifying. He assesses me, more than a little cockily. But there's an edge to him, and I get the feeling I've somehow caught him off—guard. He's more tan and rugged—looking than any businessman has a right to be. It wouldn't shock me if he spent most of his time sailing the Southern seas or wrangling bucking broncos in the hot sun. I don't know why I say that. He's got this outdoorsy look, which sort of clashes with the ultra—modern lines of his office and his building. He's too masculine to be called beautiful but it's a word that comes to mind. And it's the kind of over—the—top male beauty that'll hit you … right there.

Yikes.

As he opens the door in an invitation for me to enter, his eyes trail intently across my face and my body.

Wow.

This is already … intense.

"Ms. Blondeau." His voice is deep, tinged with bass notes that sound almost like a purr. "Please, come in."

I hesitate. Some deep instinct flickers. For a second I wonder if he might be dangerous.

My hesitation seems to amuse him, and he barely cocks his head and scalds me again with those smoky eyes, like he's challenging me. I dare you.

The brief, deep—rooted warning is overridden by something else. A curiosity. A pull that feels more complicated than mere attraction.

What I'm thinking is … I don't care if he's dangerous.

I can't quite tear my gaze away from his brawny shoulders and his burly arms, where the muscles are defined even under the layers of his clothing as he clutches the edge of the door with gripping, brutal fingers. As alone as we are, I can't help feeling like I'm walking into Rafe Black's lair. No one will hear you if you call for help.

I step into his office, and feel a small rush of anxious excitement as he closes the door firmly behind me. Is it hot in here? The automatic lock clicks into place. I can feel my heartbeat in strange places.

"You're very punctual, Ms. Blondeau. I like that."

A good start, maybe. "Please. Call me Lexi."

"Lexi." My name, spoken in that molasses—rich voice, sounds strangely erotic. Almost indecent. I find myself wondering what it would sound like … in the dark … as a growl or even a plea as I take his …

What the hell?

I force myself to focus on the reason I'm here: To. Interview. For. A. Job.

This is not like me at all. I'm a clean—cut girl, punctual, reliable to a fault. Socially awkward. And embarrassingly inexperienced. I have never in my life felt such an instant and desperate pull of white—hot lust.

Damn you, Tess! Why did I let her talk me into wearing such a short, clingy dress? I feel like my clothes are entirely sheer, like Rafe Black is somehow penetrating them with his predatory appraisal as he watches me.