After Midnight

The LED clock on my desk glows 11:47 PM, and I'm still staring at spreadsheets.

I rub my eyes and reach for my fourth coffee of the night. Cold. I grimace and set it down, refocusing on the numbers that have been swimming in front of me for the past six hours. The Kane Industries portfolio needs to be perfect before tomorrow's presentation. Elijah Kane doesn't tolerate mistakes, and neither does my managing director.

My phone buzzes. A text from my best friend Lauren: Still at work? You need a life, Vic.

I don't respond. She's right, but that doesn't change the fact that I have twelve more pages to review.

The office is silent around me, that peculiar quiet that only exists in corporate towers after everyone else has gone home. Occasionally the heating system hums to life, or I hear the distant ding of an elevator, but otherwise it's just me and the city lights beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows.

I stand, stretching, feeling my spine crack. My blouse has come partially untucked from my skirt, and my heels sit abandoned under my desk. I pad across the carpet in stockings, needing to walk, to move, to do anything but stare at numbers.

That's when I hear it. Footsteps. Heavy, deliberate, coming from the direction of the executive conference rooms.

My heart stutters. Security does rounds, but not usually this late. And those footsteps don't have the casual rhythm of a guard checking doors.

I freeze, suddenly very aware that I'm alone on the thirty-second floor, that my phone is on my desk twenty feet away, that I'm not wearing shoes.

The footsteps stop.

"Working late, Ms. Chen?"

The voice is deep, edged with something dark and amused. I know that voice. I've heard it in boardrooms, on conference calls, always controlled, always commanding.

I turn slowly.

Elijah Kane stands in the doorway of the break room, tie loosened, jacket slung over one shoulder, looking like sin in a custom suit. His dark hair is slightly disheveled, as if he's run his hands through it repeatedly. His eyes—ice blue and unnervingly direct—fix on me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.

"Mr. Kane." I force my voice to stay steady, professional. "I didn't realize anyone else was here."

"I could say the same." He moves into the break room, sets his jacket on a chair. The way he moves is predatory, economical. Every gesture purposeful. "Though I'm not surprised to find you burning the midnight oil. Your work on the Sinclair merger was impressive."

I blink. He noticed my work? I'm three levels below the executives who deal directly with him. I'm background noise, the person who builds the models and runs the numbers while the partners take the credit.

"Thank you," I manage.

He pours himself a scotch from the bottl...