The One You Want by Gena Showalter Page A

better.”
    Even harder.
    “I don’t know why you came, but I’m glad you did.” His voice was husky with arousal. “I’ve missed you.”
    “I’ve missed you, too.” She allowed him to catch her again and ran her hands up his chest, discovered his heart was beating as erratically as hers, and framed his cheeks. “I know we said we’d take things slow, but I thought we could negotiate and speed things up.”
    He pressed his lips against hers, taking the barest taste with his tongue.
    “I agree. Like I said, let’s go.” He grabbed her hand, yanked her toward the door. “We’ll do our negotiating in private.”
    A buzz sounded from his desk. “Mr. Winstead is here,” the receptionist announced.
    Dane cursed under his breath and released her to scrub a hand through his hair. “I forgot. Damn it. I can’t reschedule this. Give me an hour and we’ll go back to my place.”
    “Shall I wait in the lobby?”
    “Honey, you just got here. I’m not letting you out of my sight.” He led her to a plush leather couch, gave her another kiss, then another, this one lingering. His tongue came out to play with hers. He wrapped his arms around her.
    “Mr. Michaelson?”
    With another curse, Dane released her and stalked to his desk. He jabbed a button and said, “Send him back.”
    Not knowing what else to do, Kenna eased onto the couch. The door opened a minute later, and the receptionist stepped inside. She gave the office a visual sweep, stopping on Kenna and gaping. The African-American man who’d exited the elevators strode inside behind her. She exited, and the door closed.
    As Mr. Winstead and Dane shook hands, the other man noticed her. She gave a little wave.
    “Miss Starr will be taking notes,” Dane said, then winked at her.
    A blush warmed her cheeks. The meeting kicked off, and she picked up words like “drilling,” “refining” and “processing.” Something about NYMEX again, and a “benchmark.” Just like at the engagement party, everything went over her head.
    At one point, Dane called out, “Do you concur, Miss Starr?”
    What else could she say but, “I concur, Mr. Michaelson. Of course.”
    He sighed with exaggerated heaviness. “That certainly complicates things.”
    She almost had a panic attack. Had she just ruined his meeting? “I mean, I
don’t
concur!”
    While still talking to Mr. Winstead, he walked to the wet bar and poured a drink. She expected him to give it to his guest, but he gave it to Kenna and traced his fingertip along her jaw before returning to his desk. Her need for him returned in a rush.
    As if it had ever really left.
    She took a sip of her drink—ginger ale. One of her favorites.
    “No, I did not say that,” Mr. Winstead suddenly burst out.
    “You did,” Dane said calmly.
    “Miss Starr. Repeat back to me the last thing I said to Mr. Michaelson.”
    Uh...”No, I did not say that.”
    Dane covered his mouth with his hand—to stop a laugh?
    Mr. Winstead glared at her. “Before that.”
    “I don’t actually know,” she admitted.
    “Then what the hell are you doing here?”
    “All right. Enough,” Dane said, all pretense of calm gone. “This meeting is now over.” He stood and extended his hand. “My terms are nonnegotiable. Take them or leave them.”
    Mr. Winstead mumbled something, but the two shook hands. When Mr. Winstead left, he winked at her as Dane had, surprising her, making her think he’d gotten what he’d wanted out of their deal, whatever it was, but had played a role for show. Men! She would never understand them, but she would probably always enjoy looking at them.
    The door shut, and Dane was pulling her to her feet, wrapping his arms around her. “Finally.” He kissed her, stealing her breath, feeding her his own, ensuring her life revolved around his, that he was a part of her, branding her, owning her.
    But she could own him, too. She rolled her hips against him, nestling against the hardness between his legs. “I want