Tempting the Billionaire Read Online Free

business whether she’d take the time to pick out coordinating jewelry or buy nicer shoes. Then later that evening the representative shared how much she earned, nearly four times Crickitt’s annual salary, and the fact that she made her own schedule, and Crickitt was sold. Shortly thereafter, she’d quit her corporate climb into the ether and joined the Celebration family.
    For the last seven years, she’d worn her Entrepreneur Badge with pride.
    Which might explain the morsel of contention as she walked into August Industries’ high-rise building Monday afternoon. She’d finally dredged up her fight, rallied her courage, and for what? An interview ? After she’d clawed her way out of corporate America, now she was vying for an anonymous seat in a gray cubicle? She fervently hoped she wasn’t here because a good-looking guy had salved a gaping wound Saturday night. Wouldn’t that be lovely? Stumbling into a 401(k) because, in some capacity, a man had given her some attention.
    Where was the part of her psyche that knew what she wanted, knew who she was? Was it dormant, or had she lost that in the divorce as well?
    The elevator doors dinged open on the twelfth floor, and Crickitt stepped into what looked like a contemporary art museum. A woman with short black hair, wearing an A-line royal blue dress reminiscent of the days before computers, gave her a broad smile. Crickitt approached the modern glass desk, stopping short of touching the shining, fingerprint-free surface.
    “Welcome to August Industries,” the woman greeted in a thick accent.
    Russian? Swedish?
    “I have an interview with, uh…Shane for the personal assistant position,” Crickitt said, praying the woman didn’t ask for his last name.
    “Your résumé?” she asked pleasantly.
    Crickitt dug through her plain canvas bag, lamenting never having purchased a posh leather briefcase. She handed over the single sheet of paper, smoothing a creased corner as she did. A button gapped at the front of her shirt and she straightened it, wishing she had gone to Nordstrom instead of Target. She felt like a Clampett in Beverly Hills.
    The receptionist glanced over her résumé before studying the sleek white computer in front of her. “One o’clock?”
    Crickitt nodded.
    “Have a seat. He is running a few minutes behind,” she said, folding her hands neatly.
    White and pale blue chairs formed an L-shape on the far wall. Crickitt took an empty seat next to a curved concrete statue of…something. She frowned up at the arced shape. Whatever it was, it was tall.
    A woman in a creamy yellow suit sat in an adjacent chair flipping idly through a magazine. Crickitt twisted her mouth as she took in the matching butter-colored heels and handbag. Probably not purchased at a store with a bull’s-eye for a logo.
    As if she felt eyes on her, the other woman looked up.
    “I like your shoes,” Crickitt said.
    She smiled. “Thank you.” A moment later, the receptionist called to her and she stood, dropping the magazine onto the table in front of them. “You should check this out,” she told Crickitt. “He’s pretty hot.” Then she sashayed away, leaving Crickitt frowning down at the periodical.
    Forbes? What hot guy decorated the interior of Forbes ?
    Crickitt reached for the periodical, flipping open the cover and thumbing through the pages. Not surprisingly, she found lengthy articles interspersed with photographs of men in suits. Most of them older, with paunchy bellies and little to no hair. Then she came to a two-page spread that put her face-to-face with the man from the club. Shane. Just recalling the way his hand fit against hers had her heart ka-thumping, her palms sweating.
    Wow. “Hot” was the perfect description for him.
    He stood in the center of a bare room, hands in his pockets, eyes focused off to the side. His thick dark hair was the right length to be professional, but long enough to tickle the collar of his suit. Black and white treated him