An Heir For The World's Richest Man. Maya Blake

insignificant satellite that orbited around his brilliance.

       That Morocco hadn’t happened.

      She pressed her lips together, fighting the chaotic sensations in mind and body as Joao let out a low, deep laugh.

      ‘Sim, I’ll respect you in the morning. You’ll leave satisfied that your legacy is in the best hands possible.’

      Long fingers tapped the smooth surface of his glass desk, drawing her attention to its graceful elegance, its subdued power. From there it was a mere skip to unlocking memories of when those fingers made firm, deliberate contact with her skin. Stroked and teased and branded, leaving an indelible mark on her.

      She watched his arm rise, his fingers stretching out in silent command for the document.

      While Joao’s ability to multitask was another skilful feather in his cap, she hadn’t anticipated executing this task while he conducted one of the biggest deals of his company’s history.

      But...the order of things didn’t matter. She was here to take her life back.

       So, do it.

      Lips pressed firmly together, she handed over the paper.

      Perhaps her expression gave her away. Perhaps the poker face that had seen her through four long years but had begun to crack after Morocco had finally let her down.

      Seconds breathlessly ticked by as he continued to recite facts and figures to Lavinia in his deep accented voice, all without taking his eyes off Saffron’s face. A full minute later, his gaze finally dropped to the sheet.

      Shrewd eyes skimmed the document with lightning speed. Then his breathtaking face tightened.

      Her insides jumped as those hypnotic eyes rose to lock on hers.

      ‘Sim,’ he murmured smoothly to Lavinia, although Saffie heard curt edginess wrapped around the word. ‘But remember I’m not a patient man. I want your company, and I will play your games for now. But eventually one of us will grow bored and resort to...other measures. Prepare yourself for that scenario, too, meu querido. Until the next time.’

      The words might have been directed into the phone but Saffie felt their impact deep inside.

      With a casual flick of his hand, he ended the call. Then chilled, narrowed eyes rose from her carefully crafted resignation letter to her face.

      ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he breathed in a low, deadly voice.

      Saffron called on every last crumb of composure and held his stare. ‘It’s exactly as it says. I’m tendering my resignation.’

      His gaze flickered with a hint of disbelief, then dropped to the page. ‘For “personal reasons”? You do not have a personal life, therefore you cannot have personal reasons. Therefore—’ he flicked a disdainful finger at the sheet ‘—this is a blatant lie.’

      She didn’t want to be hurt by the caustic words. By now, she should be immune to his brand of ruthless disregard for any impediment that stood between him and whatever goal he pursued. And yet that mysterious pang that had sprung up the morning after their fateful night burrowed deeper into her heart.

      ‘Thank you so much for pointing that out. And while I’m at it, thank you for the flowers and jewellery, although I won’t be accepting them. I’m assuming you’re about to step things up with Lavinia, hence the need for that outrageous bribe?’

      Not by a flicker of an eyelash did he acknowledge any wrongdoing in commissioning a necklace most monarchs would give an eye tooth for. ‘You’re building up to a point, I expect? Some sort of negotiation perhaps?’ he mused.

      ‘You’re not going to give me the courtesy of an answer?’

      ‘I believe one of the first things we discussed at the start of your employment was not to ask questions you already know the answers to. Would you like me to repeat mine? Because you haven’t given me a satisfactory answer.’

      ‘Every answer you need is in that letter. I’m resigning for personal reasons. Effective immediately after the requisite notice period.’

      The gaze he flicked at the letter was filled with such singeing disdain, Saffron was surprised it didn’t catch fire.

      ‘You’re not flighty. You’re supremely efficient. Dependable. Level-headed. One of the most hardworking people I know. In the past four years, there hasn’t been a single task you haven’t executed to my satisfaction,’ he drawled, angling his body back to lounge in the high-backed, throne-like chair a vaunted French furniture designer had fashioned exclusively for him. The stance threw his gladiator-like frame into high-definition relief, the sunlight doing its part to showcase his perfect body.

      Saffron’s thighs snapped together as heat singed her feminine core and burrowed deep, sensuously, into her pelvis, reminding how it’d felt to have that body up close, personal...naked.

      Inside her.

      ‘Thank you. I’m glad you noticed.’

      Her sarcasm went over his head. As with most things he thought beneath his regard. Why was she even surprised?

      ‘Which is why I’m puzzled by your need to couch your so-called resignation in such...whimsical, flowery prose. You’re “honoured by the opportunity” to have worked with me? You wish me “the brightest of futures”? Your experience with me will remain “an unforgettable experience”?’ he recited.

      Fine, so she’d let her nerves run away with her in the early hours of the morning when she’d redrafted the letter yet again, but did he really need to repeat it in such mocking tones? ‘Believe it or not, everything on there is true—’

      ‘Everything on here is nonsense!’ His deep voice was a merciless scythe through her response. ‘Your resignation is not accepted. Especially not at such a crucial point in my dealings with Lavinia. We’ve been going about this all wrong. It’s time to flip the script. To win her over we have to show her what she doesn’t know she’s missing. Let’s take her out of her comfort zone, in the most enticing way. You think you can handle that?’

      Saffron fought the urge to clench her fists and stamp her foot. That would achieve absolutely nothing. Besides, as Joao had so coldly categorised, she wasn’t flighty. She was dependable. Level-headed. Hard-working. Obedient.

      Qualities she’d striven for as an orphan. Everything the nuns at St Agnes’s Home For Children had assured her would secure foster parents and eventually parents who would adopt her, only for her to be passed over time and again in favour of others. She’d shed silent tears—because it wouldn’t have done for Sister Zeta to hear her crying and be disappointed in her—when bratty Selena had been chosen instead of her that week before Christmas when she was seven.

      She’d been overwhelmed with sorrow when eight months later another smiling couple had walked away with a child that wasn’t her.

      Through every heart-rending repetition of those events, she hadn’t shown any outward sign of distress or, even worse, thrown a tantrum like some of the other children. Eventually when her moment had finally arrived at the ripe old age of fourteen, she had refrained from exhibiting any outward signs of elation, lest it be misconstrued.

      She’d maintained that self-possession through the two happy years she’d spent with her foster mother, and then through the harrowing eighteen months when her health had rapidly declined. Saffie had kept tearless vigils by her bedside, made the solemn promise that, no, she wouldn’t succumb to loneliness, that, yes, she would seek another family for herself when the time came, no matter what.

      When, a week before her eighteenth birthday, Saffron had buried her foster mother, she’d buoyed up everyone at the small funeral gathering, recounting her fondest memories of that wonderful woman and drawing smiles to everyone’s faces. And she’d made sure she was completely alone before shedding a single tear.