Wow. I’ve turned into a Carmichael groupie. My brother would be so proud.

Callan keeps skimming the pages, his face etched in concentration as he absently says, “I’m interested.” He licks his thumb and flips to the next page.

“What do you mean you’re interested? You’re going after it!”

He lifts his head and meets my gaze, then shuts the folder and tosses it aside, shifting on the couch to face me. “I intend to, but not until certain factors come into play. Alcore needs to be absolutely helpless.”

“Wow. You’re an asshole.”

“A very rich asshole, Miss Roth.” His lips tilt even as I frown. “You can’t do business in here, Olivia,” he taps a fist to his chest, “you need to use this,” then taps a finger to his temple, “and this.” He taps his fist to his stomach, the movement pressing his shirt against what I know are perfectly cut abs. “Your gut.”

He watches me like he usually does when he expects me to bombard him with questions, but when I don’t, he adds, “Alcore’s net income doesn’t reflect the true state of their company, the cash flow is terrible and the market they’re in is a competitive environment. But . . .”

“But?”

“We’ve got the infrastructure to turn that around. My brother is a gambler and in a way so am I, except I don’t leave anything to chance. Which is why I’m dotting all the i’s and crossing all the t’s first.”

I stare thoughtfully at the closed folder on the coffee table. “There’s always the chance of failure.”

“Failure is not an option.” He props his elbows on his knees and shifts forward an inch in my direction. “Only delays. Besides, regrets are for pussies. Shit happens. You deal with it and push forward. End of story.”

He lifts his brows, and I nod.

God, this man is cold-blooded.

“You need to always be hungry for more. Win or lose,” he adds.

I know that he thinks I’m too sentimental to be in this line of business. He always frowns when I get concerned about somebody getting hurt in the process of a takeover.

Somebody always gets hurt, Olivia; the point is to make a clean cut and grow from there.

I clutch my stomach as I think about Alcore soon being Carma’s next target. “I’m nervous now.” I frown. “I feel guilty for bringing Alcore to your attention.”

“It’s your job.”

“It’s harder than I thought.”

He stretches out an arm behind the couch, eyeing me with a serene strength and peace—with no doubt about what he does, or who he is.

“I’m scared of this business being too much for me,” I admit.

He reaches out and pushes a stray lock of hair behind my forehead, the touch so unexpected, I tense all over—from my temple to my throat, my chest, my tummy, my thighs, my toes.

“Hey, you’re doing good.” He nods, and suddenly his eyes grow warmer than usual, almost tender. “Sitting here, I see a girl with more gumption than I’ve seen in a long time. She’s sensitive. Smart. With a pretty good head on her shoulders, who won’t take my crap. She’s got a nice heart, not very common in Carma. She’s young and has a lot to learn. But she’s no coward.” He shakes his head sternly. “All she needs is a chance to see she’s more than one tiny, insignificant fear, and the world is hers.”

“You need glasses. Should I tell your temp to schedule an appointment? A doctor, too? Check your head maybe? You’re not as smart as they say you are.”

He laughs.

I feel my cheeks warm and a strange shyness flit through me. “Thank you,” I finally say.

“That’ll be six hundred an hour.” He opens his palm—his very big palm.

“Wow, really? A shopping spree does just as much good for me and at least I get to keep the shoes!”

He laughs, and when a silence falls, I know it’s time to go.

I swallow and I stand quietly and start gathering my things, slipping my feet into my shoes, aware of Callan watching me. He picks up the files again—and it almost feels as if we’re both trying very hard to pretend we don’t enjoy our conversations so much. As if we’re both trying to pretend we don’t enjoy sex together too much.

“Well . . . good night, Mr. Carmichael.”

For a moment, Callan just stares at me. I almost think he’s going to ask me to stay—and not to review papers. But then he says, quietly, “Good night, Miss Roth.”

The rest of the week flies by in a flurry of activity as Mr. Lincoln meets with Callan upstairs on Friday. He heads up the elevator at 9 a.m. with a stack of thick files and paperwork, comes back down an hour and a half later, absently asks me for coffee, copies, more research, corrections, and hours later, he’s heading back to meet the boss.

I wonder what they talk about. I wonder what’s happening. I’m a cat like that, too curious for my own good, but I can’t help it.

I stay late that day, even after Mr. Lincoln leaves, busy organizing the files he’s been updating. I’m engrossed in all the details as I type the corrections on the computer, when the phone rings and I absently lift the receiver and recite the usual greeting. “Carma Inc. Henry Lincoln’s office.”

“Livvy.”

I start when I recognize the male voice on the other end of the line.

It’s puzzling, really, that a mere voice can affect me this much.

What does he want? I ask myself as I nod stupidly with the telephone clutched tightly in my hand.