Page 12 of One Rule
“Hmmm.” That’s it. That’s all he gives me before we hear the ding of the elevator, and I know it’s the end of our conversation. His head gives a subtle tilt in the direction of the footsteps heading toward his office, the sound alerting me it’s a male, yet his attention remains on me.
“Are you expecting someone?” I ask then, brows furrowing whilemyeyes do shift, trying to catch the visitor through the kitchen’s entrance. We’re towards the back end of this floor, but I still have a clear view of anyone heading toward Micah’s door. My office is on the opposite wall and a little further up, hidden from this vantage point. “I didn’t see any meetings on the itinerary. Your day is pretty clear.”
“This one’s off the books.”
“With who?” Curiosity is a bitch, and I’m nosy. More so when it comes to him.
“Your brother.”
“What’s Lionel doing here? He’s supposed to be out of town.” Last week, he’d made arrangements with our father to visit Tallahassee and attend a dinner with the governor tonight. They’d gone to discuss the plans and funds needed to rebuild an area affected by two hurricanes that swept through our city last year and created quite a mess for businesses and residents alike.
Our tropical beaches are a gold mine for those families who invested in Florida tourism then and now. Old money meets new ambition, and anything that isn’t built with luxury in mind or set to preserve the art deco touch that’s graced Miami Beach since the early 1930s is unacceptable. People come from all over the world to experience our shores, and the state loses millions in revenue when our hotels, clubs, and shorelines are empty.
“We have some business to discuss, but I do appreciate how proactive you are.”
“Proactive? Or nosy?”
Raising his hand, Micah taps the bridge of my nose twice before sweeping his knuckles across my still-heated cheeks. A touch I ignore. Can’t give myself false hope. “You’re well aquatinted with my schedule, rebel. You’ll be perfect.”
“Perfect for what?” Not that he answers. Instead, Micah ignores the question while using the same hand to pick up his coffee and walk past me. Not that I let him reach the door, though. He’s at the threshold when I can’t help but blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “I’m not going to run around in these heels.”
At that, he pauses. His back muscles are a little stiff, but his head snaps in my direction and he looks at me from over his shoulder. His head dips and his darkening eyes flick down to my feet where they stay; I bought this pair a few weeks ago from an online boutique after a famous actress walked the red carpet wearing them.
They were simply stunning and with the perfect name to match: Harlot.
Black leather pumps with silver-toned hardware that’s bold and edgy while the strap around the ankle is sexy. I’d never seen a footwear line like this before. Between their signature pointed toe and the metal heel, I was head over shoes in love with Hardot brand.
I bought them without a second thought, and I’ve never been prouder of a purchase.
Or the one that followed. Especially, with the way he continues to stare at them.
“You will.”
“Will what, Mr. Royce?”
“Be under me, Ms. Armas.”
“W-what—?”
“Starting this very second, you’re my new secretary.”
Chapter4
Micah
“You’re in an awfully good mood for a man threatening to shoot me just a few hours ago,” Lionel says from his seat across my desk, eyeing the cup of coffee I’d set down to my right. On his face, there’s a smirk, the ever-present knowledge that I’m controlled by a woman I’ve yet to claim, and that hurting him would cause her distress.
Distressis a word that should never be associated with my glorious little rebel. Something he knows. My love for her gives the grinning asshole a small sense of comfort because she’s happy and I’ve kept my promises. Liliana Armas is:
Protected.
Untouched.
Cared for.
Just a few more months, and she’ll be everythingbutpure.
His eyes shift from me to the mug; a cocky smirk grows by the second because the cold foam, her signature preference, still sits atop this sweet concoction. Lionel knows I only drink this because she made it, and that by choice, I like my coffee black and unsweetened, but for her, I’ve always swallowed each sugary sip without complaint.