He looked nothing like James Brolin. He was younger, hotter, more rugged. I’d put him in his early thirties.

My elevator mate had dark, inky-colored hair, long around the ears and buried under a baseball cap that was turned backwards. His eyes were a striking steel blue, and he was sporting just the right amount of chin scruff over his beautifully defined jaw.

The words wouldn’t come to me. I simply said, “Hi,” as if it were the first moment we’d actually met.

He flashed a dangerously sexy smile and winked. “Hi.”Wow. My little ball player was quite the fox.

I’d only seen her from the back before the lights went out. Now, I was staring into her beautiful, big brown eyes, feeling like this elevator mishap wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

She cleared her throat. “The lights came back, but we’re still stuck.”

I clicked on some of the buttons. “Seems that way. But this is a step in the right direction. I bet this thing will be moving in no time.”

And by this thing moving, I do not mean my dick, although I could have sworn I felt it twitch when she just licked her beautiful full lips.

Do that again.

Fuck.

She is beautiful.

My eyes travelled down the length of her body then back up again, loving how the small buttons on her conservative blouse formed a path up to her delicate neck. I wouldn’t have minded sucking on that skin.

Maybe I could entice her to play hooky with me.

“Where are you headed once we get out of here?” I asked.

“The thirty-fourth floor,” she said.

What?

What is she doing going up to my floor?

I know she doesn’t work for me. I would have remembered that face, those eyes.

“What kind of business you have going on up there?”

“I actually have the pleasure of interviewing Mister Moneybags himself.”

My stomach sank.

Ohhhh.

This didn’t bode well for me.

I swallowed then cocked my head to the side and played dumb. “Who?”

“The elusive Dexter Truitt. He’s the CEO of Montague Enterprises. They occupy the entire top floor.”

Trying to seem like I was not seriously about to lose my shit, I asked, “Why do you call him Mister Moneybags?”

“I just picture him to be this crabby, money-hungry asshole, I guess. Sounds like a fitting name. Of course, I don’t actually know him.”

“Why do you think that way about him, then?”

“I have my reasons.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t assume the worst about people until you get to know them.” Even though I knew the answer, I asked, “Why are you interviewing him anyway?”

“I work for a business magazine, Finance Times. I was assigned to cover an exclusive we snagged. It’s about Truitt’s ‘coming out’ of sorts. He’s always kept very private after taking over the company from his father, not wanting to be photographed or interviewed. His ability to keep himself pretty much a mystery has been impeccable. When I found out that we would be granted his first interview, I jumped at the opportunity to volunteer.”

“Why is that? I mean, if you don’t like the guy…”

“I think it will be fun to grill him.”

“You don’t strike me as someone who typically gets off on making other people sweat, especially considering your panic issues.”

“Well, believe me when I say I will get my shit together for this. I am not letting this opportunity pass me by.”

“You know you really shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. You’ve already determined that you think this guy is an asshole, and you’ve never even met him. Just because someone is rich and powerful doesn’t make them a bad person.”

“It’s not just that.”

“What is it, then?”

“Let’s just say, I’ve done my homework for this interview, and I have first-hand knowledge the guy’s an asshole. It’s too much to get into.”

Fuck. My pulse was starting to race. I needed to know why she had such preconceived notions about me. She definitely couldn’t have suspected that I was Dexter Truitt, given the casual clothes I was wearing after the gym. I looked like a fucking bike messenger instead of the CEO of a multi-million-dollar empire.

My office had its own shower and closet, and I’d planned to change as soon as I got upstairs. I guess I would’ve been late for the interview.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Bianca.”

“Bianca what?”

“Bianca George.”

That was the name of the reporter I was meeting with.

“Nice to meet you, Bianca.”

“And you are?”

What was my name?

Do I tell her that the interview with Mister Moneybags actually started from the moment she got into the elevator, or do I play along and pretend to be the down-to-earth guy she’s beginning to open up to? The latter sounded like a hell of a lot more fun.

My name.

My name.

I stared down at the piece of mail I’d picked up after the gym this morning. It was laying on the elevator floor next to her metal balls.