I keep my attention on Rebecca, working to keep my voice level. “The number of vegans in the US is rising. Plant-based food product sales grew by thirty-one percent from 2017 to 2019 in the US alone. This is one of the few remaining sectors with exponential growth. Expectations are for the vegan ‘meat’ market to hit seven billion globally by 2025. We can either get in, make a large return and get out, or get in, stay in and ride the growth. If they figure out they have to go with venture capital investors or go IPO to get more money, there will be a line forming to give it to them.”
Rebecca looks to Ivan. I keep my eyes down. Seconds build to minutes, tension rising with every breath I take. Finally, I give in and look at Ivan.
He’s reading the proposal. Once again there is no indication of his thoughts on his disgustingly beautiful face. Silver glints through his thick black hair at the temples, of course it doesn’t detract from him, instead adding a regal quality he totally doesn’t need.
Against the crisp white of his shirt I’m caught wondering where he got his glowing golden skin from. I thought he was from Russia. My stomach twists with a deep need to know everything there is to know about him, right now.
In a flash his eyes meet mine. Oh fuck, oh fuck, I’m caught in a wildfire out of control. My stomach drops in fear. Then he blinks and it’s gone.
“It has merit. My office, one o’clock.”
He nods at the man across from me. “Michael, your proposal.”
Air rushes back into my burning lungs. Odd, my lips tingle; another shiver washes over me, and this one I can’t hide. What the hell? I look up but Ivan’s attention is on Michael. You’re losing it, Christina. Wait, his office at one? This is good, this is awesome. Holy shit, could Anna be right?
It's hard to focus on the other presentations as the meeting drones on. I’m wondering how the meeting will go with Ivan, a little scared. I don’t remember Simon ever meeting with Ivan after an acquisition being accepted. Usually there were follow-up emails from the solar system to Simon that I answered, no meetings.
I’m so lost in my thoughts the room is almost entirely empty before I realize the meeting is over. My hands are down, ready to push away from the table when I see Rebecca and Tim leave the room.
Ivan is still at the table. His attention on a proposal, the forefinger of his right hand is tapping the table in a slow steady beat. He has large, strong hands, and my mouth goes dry then uncomfortably wet at the idea of those hands running over my skin.
There is no warning; I would have sworn he wasn’t aware of me. I’m wrong. His eyes meet mine, heat flares inside me, all over, consuming me. What the hell is wrong with me? I want to flee. I even try to stand but he stops me.
“Stay. I have questions for you. Here is as good as my office.”
Seriously, what happened to him for his voice to be such a mix of gravel and smoke? I can’t stop my tongue from slipping out to wet my lips. The taste of watermelon reminds me of the lip oil and how shiny they are.
His jaw tightens, and my lips tingle again. Not just my lips but there. Not only is it tingling, there is a rush of wet heat I have never known in my life.
Oh god. This is not happening. I dip my head, blindly looking down. Praying he doesn’t see me blush, praying for this to be over, for this to be some weird dream I never thought I would have.
“Yes, of course.” I open my proposal. “What would you like to know?”
“Are you fucking Simon?”
My head snaps up. There is no expression on his face even though derision soaked every word. Shock doesn’t cover it. Out of anything in the world he could ask me, those were words I never thought I would hear. I had to have heard him wrong. “What did you just ask me?”
“Are you fucking Simon?” Slowly, stretching every syllable, the words rumble out of him. Something about his accent, so cultured and refined, makes the question even more obscene.
A very differ
ent fire flares hot and bright at those words, at his offensive question.
“How dare you ask me that. Do I look like a moron with no self-respect or a slut with a punch card on antibiotics?” I cannot fucking believe this. Believe him.
“Answer the question.” He raps out the demand, the words sting.
“No. I am NOT fucking Simon. Why the hell would you ask me such a disgusting question?”
The slightest rise and fall of one eyebrow is his response. I was right before: he is loathsome. So why the hell do I still want to find out what his mouth tastes like?
“I want to know. Are there rumors or something about me and Simon? Why did you ask me that?” I make my own demand.
“All of the proposals for the last three years have been yours. It is a reasonable question. There is little other explanation for a person as intelligent as you are to do someone else’s work without the recognition and financial reward you deserve. Yes, I noticed your salary is higher than your peers. It is a fraction of your worth. Reading through this it is your voice, exactly as I hear you speaking. So, if you are not fucking him, why are doing his work?”
It’s a compliment and insult at the same time. “Because I need a job and this was my job, as explained to me by Simon. I was under the impression you were intelligent enough to have figured out this was not his work. Why were you not able to do so when he was on the verge of being fired before I became his assistant?”
Zing—both eyebrows go up a fraction before falling again. “Touché. Martin was Simon’s entry to this company. Martin promised me when I gave Simon his warning he would work with him. Simon’s style is much like your own. Reviewing your file, I see you both attended the same university, and had the same professor. A professor who has sent me a number of his best students. Interesting that he did not send me Simon. It was Martin who did.”