Chapter 9
Arthur Barron stared at the shattered glass and the groaning men on the floor. His face was a mask of humiliated rage.
He pointed a shaking finger at Carlee. "Without our suppliers, your little company is dead in the water. You'll be begging me to take you back."
Carlee stepped out from behind Braden. Her chin was held high, her eyes blazing with defiance. "I would rather burn this place to the ground than take another dime from you."
Brigette grabbed Arthur's arm, her eyes darting nervously toward Braden. Together, they dragged the injured bodyguards out of the office, fleeing down the hallway.
The moment they were gone, the suffocating tension in the room snapped. Lena collapsed into her chair, gasping for air.
Carlee turned immediately to Braden. Her eyes frantically scanned his broad chest, his shoulders, and his arms, searching for any sign of blood.
She stepped right into his personal space, tilting her head back to look at his face.
"That was incredible," Carlee breathed, her voice thick with raw admiration. "Where did you learn to fight like that?"
Braden instantly buried the terrifying, murderous aura he had just unleashed. He reached up, adjusting his cheap glasses with a sheepish, humble smile.
"I served a few combat tours in the military before I was honorably discharged," Braden lied smoothly, keeping his posture relaxed. "You learn some advanced close-quarters combat to survive." The logic snapped perfectly into place in Carlee's mind. Of course a hardened veteran who had seen real, brutal combat would know how to dismantle a physical threat so efficiently. Her last shred of suspicion vanished, but as she looked down at his massive, heavy-knuckled hands, a profound sense of awe mixed with a chilling sliver of reverence washed over her. She realized, with a sudden spike of adrenaline, that this quiet assistant harbored a dark, incredibly dangerous past beneath his cheap suit.
A surge of protective possessiveness washed over her. She walked to her desk and grabbed her Birkin bag.
"We're closing early," Carlee announced. She pointed a finger at Braden. "Grab the keys. You're coming with me."
Braden raised an eyebrow but didn't argue. He followed her out the door.
Thirty minutes later, a yellow cab dropped them off on Fifth Avenue, right in front of the Tom Ford flagship store.
Braden pushed the heavy glass doors open. The scent of rich oud and expensive leather hit them. Two saleswomen looked up, ready to dismiss the man in the cheap suit, until they saw the Birkin on Carlee's arm. They practically sprinted over.
Carlee grabbed Braden by the shoulders and shoved him in front of a massive floor-to-ceiling mirror. She pinched the fabric of his lapel with a look of utter disgust.
"This garbage is insulting to my brand," Carlee declared. She turned to the racks, her eyes scanning the fabrics like a hawk. Within seconds, she pulled three dark, aggressively tailored suits and shoved them into his chest. "Try them on."
Braden looked at the suits. To him, they were just off-the-rack basics, but he nodded and stepped into the fitting room.
When the heavy velvet curtain pulled back, the entire store went completely silent.
Braden stepped out wearing a midnight-blue suit with a subtle pinstripe. The tailoring clung to his massive shoulders and tapered perfectly at his waist. Without the cheap fabric dragging him down, his innate, terrifyingly aristocratic aura exploded into the room.
Carlee was holding a glass of champagne. Her hand froze in mid-air. Her mouth parted slightly. A jolt of pure, electric heat shot straight to her core. He looked like a billionaire.
The two saleswomen were staring openly, their faces flushed red, completely forgetting to do their jobs.
The bell above the door chimed. A blonde socialite in a pink Chanel tweed suit walked in.
She spotted Braden instantly. Her eyes lit up like a predator. She strutted right past Carlee and stopped inches from Braden.
She pulled a card from her purse and held it out, batting her eyelashes. "I don't think we've met. Which family are you with?"
Braden's eyes went flat. He didn't even raise his hand to take the card. He looked at her like she was an insect.
Before he could speak, Carlee set her champagne glass down on the nearest display table with a sharp, deliberate clink. She walked over, her stilettos clicking like weapons against the marble floor, radiating an aura of absolute, untouchable frost. She didn't slap the woman's hand. Instead, she smoothly and gracefully stepped directly between them, her posture impeccably straight, and offered the socialite a condescending, pitying smile. "My assistant is currently on the clock," Carlee said, her voice a chilling, cultured drawl that echoed in the quiet store. "And we are far too busy building an empire to entertain irrelevant distractions. Keep your card." The blonde recognized Carlee immediately. She turned pale, scoffed loudly to save face, and practically ran out of the store.
Braden looked down at Carlee's rigid, protective stance as she shielded him from the socialite. He felt the sheer, dominant energy radiating from her slender frame. A dark, obsessive thrill ripped through his chest. He was completely addicted to the sight of her claiming him as her own, even in a strictly professional capacity. Carlee stepped back, clearing her throat to mask the sudden, inexplicable possessiveness that had just flared in her blood.
She pulled a sleek black Amex from her wallet and handed it to the manager.
"We'll take all three," she ordered.
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