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

the call was done, she reached for the velvet box with not quite steady hands and returned to her boss’s office.

      ‘Are you coming down with an ailment?’ Joao demanded, a healthy dose of that Brazilian temper melting away a layer of indifference. ‘Would you like me to summon the company doctor for you?’

      ‘That won’t be necessary. I’m absolutely fine. In fact, I’m more than fine. I’m seeing things a little more clearly for the first time in a long while.’

      He tensed, his eyes probing deeper. ‘And those things include resigning from a job that you stated in your last evaluation was “the most fulfilling thing” in your life?’

      She bit the inside of her cheek, regret for those exposing words drenching her. But again, it was one of the many faults in her life she intended to rectify sharpish. ‘Yes.’

      Tense seconds ticked by as he eyed her. ‘You do realise you could’ve stated a number of reasons for resigning besides this personal excuse you’re holding so preciously to your chest?’

      The observation stopped her short.

      Had it been deliberate? Did she, on some subliminal level, wish him to see beneath her façade, to the heart of her single, deepest desire? To that yearning that had started with a deathbed promise and blossomed soon after her foster mother’s passing, when Saffron had realised she was once again alone in the world, and had known she wouldn’t feel whole again until she fulfilled it? A yearning that had momentarily faded against the brilliant supernova that was Joao, only to re-emerge invigorated, viscerally demanding fulfilment?

      No.

      One night had been enough. The last thing she wanted was to reveal any more of her vulnerabilities to a man like Joao Oliviera. A man who breathed and bled commerce. A man who dropped his lovers swiftly and without mercy the moment they harboured the barest notions of permanence. A man without a family and a blatantly stated anathema towards ever encumbering himself with one.

      ‘I was hoping you’d respect my privacy and leave it at that.’

      ‘We have never deluded one another, Saffie. Let us not start now.’

      Her breath caught at the accented way he pronounced her shortened name. Saahfie.

      Each time it sent electric shivers down her spine, made her breasts tingle and her belly flip-flop in giddy excitement. This time was no different despite the volatile tension arcing between them.

      But his statement made her breath catch for different, more terrible, reasons.

      She had lived through months, perhaps even years of delusion.

      Ultimately, that shameful realisation that she was chasing dreams, and wasting precious time doing so, was why she stood before him now.

      ‘Your letter threw up red flags. I’m acknowledging those flags and demanding to know what’s going on. Especially since we parted company only a few hours ago and you gave no inkling of pulling this stunt.’

      ‘Firstly, it’s not a stunt. Secondly, did it occur to you that I might not want to do this for ever? You might imagine you have immortal blood flowing through your veins and are therefore going to live for ever. Some of us are more cognisant of our mortality. So pardon me if I’ve realised that I don’t want to work until two a.m. on a Monday morning only to turn around and return to the office at seven-thirty to put in another eighteen hours.’

      A dark frown descended over his brows and something like disappointment shot through his eyes. For whatever reason his anger didn’t grate as much as his disappointment. ‘That’s the problem? You’re complaining about your workload? You have my permission to hire yourself another assistant.’

      She eased her grip on the box, breached the last few steps to his desk and set it down. ‘I can’t accept this. Even if I weren’t leaving, it would still be too much. I’ve donated the flowers to the gala organisers for the charity dinner you’re attending this evening. Prepare for Lady Monroe’s effusiveness when she sees you tonight. She believes they’ll easily fetch twenty thousand pounds if they’re auctioned off—’

      ‘Pelo amor de—enough with this lifeless performance. Tell me what you want and let’s get it out of the way so we can get back to work! Give away the flowers if you wish but the necklace is yours.’

      ‘Joao—’

      ‘It cannot be money. I already pay you ten times more than your closest rival. I’d offer to triple that salary but I suspect you’d say—’

      ‘It’s not money.’

      He gave a brisk nod. ‘Bom, we’re getting somewhere. What is it, then?’

      Her heart stuttered. She couldn’t tell him. Not everything and certainly not what had triggered her decision to walk away. His indifference since their night in Morocco had said everything.

      At best, that disappointment on his face would deepen. At worse, he’d mock her for letting emotions get the better of her.

      But she wasn’t a robot.

      Her life was flashing past before her eyes and she’d already given him more years than she’d originally planned. And with every day she sacrificed her innermost needs on the altar of Joao’s newest business obsession, she despaired a little more.

      And perhaps even hated him a fraction, too. For that indifference she knew would never change. For his inability to step down from his god-like throne and deign to acknowledge the needs of mere humans.

       Her needs.

      ‘You want to know why I’m leaving? It’s simple. I’ve decided you’re not the answer to my every problem.’

      His eyes narrowed into dark gold slits. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’ he snapped. ‘Stop playing games and speak plainly!’

      Irritation bristled through her. ‘Or else what? You’re going to stop me from walking out?’

      Silence throbbed between them.

      Slowly he rose, his impressive height dwarfing hers even from across the desk as he removed the cufflinks from his shirtsleeves, and meticulously folded them back.

      She didn’t want to watch, didn’t want to acknowledge that extra dose of virile masculinity that made him impossible to ignore. But she couldn’t help herself. Her gaze dropped to follow every inch of silky-hair-dusted forearms that was exposed. Tiny lightning bolts fired through her, blazing her already aggravated libido as she wondered how those strong arms would feel banded around her waist again, drawing her close to the towering perfection of his hard, muscled body.

      ‘What is going on, Saffie?’ The low-voiced demand, wrapped in power and authority, jerked her from her lustful reverie.

      Her fingers gripped the straps of her handbag. At no point had she deluded herself that resigning as Joao’s executive assistant after living and breathing the role for four full-on years would be easy. But she hadn’t anticipated it being this hard either. If he’d shown zero interest in her life outside the walls of his existence before Morocco, he’d been a million times more detached since.

      He didn’t know about her childhood in the orphanage, about her short, happy spell with her foster mother. About her devastation when she’d been orphaned once again.

       About the promise she’d made.

      Her heart thundered as she panicked that he wouldn’t let go until she gave him something. She didn’t realise she was slicking a nervous tongue over her bottom lip until his gaze dropped to her mouth.

      For a single moment, detachment vanished.

      Then it returned full force, bruising her with its severity.

      ‘Do you remember how I came to be your assistant in the first place?’ Saffie asked, needing temporary relief from