The Dare Collection January 2019. JC Harroway

father had done everything for Lily before he’d gone to prison, and she’d let him. I’d thought it was because Dad was a control freak, but maybe it hadn’t been that. Maybe Lily had been more than happy for him to do everything for her.

      Knowing that didn’t lessen my annoyance and frustration one iota, however.

      ‘You should have texted me,’ I said curtly. ‘I won’t tolerate lateness, which you should know since I’ve already told you that at least twice.’

      Poppy opened her mouth, no doubt to protest, but I hadn’t finished.

      ‘Your clothes, though, are unacceptable, not to mention inappropriate for a corporate environment,’ I went on. ‘You’re going to have to go home and change.’

      ‘Seriously?’ She stared at me as though she’d never heard of anything so preposterous. ‘If you want me in pencil skirts and nice little blouses with pussy bows you’re shit out of luck. I don’t have any.’

      ‘Then go and buy some. There are plenty of shops out there that stock them.’

      Her smirk disappeared and something else sparked in her gaze. ‘You specified that I wasn’t to be late. You said nothing about what I had to wear.’

      ‘I also specified that you were to fulfil any tasks I set you and if I want you to go out and buy some appropriate clothing then that’s what you’re going to do.’

      That lovely mouth hardened, anger glittering in her eyes. ‘If my clothing is so important I’ll find something else for tomorrow, but today you’re going to have to suck it up.’

      My own anger began to rise, thick and hot, unwelcome and unwanted. At her for arguing with me about something so pointless and at myself for being unable to let it go. For being unable to tear my attention from that fascinating button between her breasts.

      The shirt was faded, the fabric cheap and the button hanging by a thread should have made her look tacky and slutty. Not my type at all. I liked a cool, poised woman. A woman who dressed well, who could hold a rational conversation without descending into sarcasm and snark. A woman who didn’t argue with me in the bedroom, who let me run the show the way I liked to.

      The complete opposite of Poppy, in other words.

      ‘No.’ I attempted to keep hold of both my temper and the rising need to flick that button off, part the fabric, get a glimpse of the perfect curves of her breasts cupped by her bra. ‘You’ll go down to the department store and you’ll buy yourself a work-appropriate outfit and you’ll do it now.’

      Anger flared in her expression. ‘Go to hell, you arrogant bastard.’

      I moved before I could stop myself, taking one step over to the chair where she sat. Then I put my hand on the back of it, leaning over her then bending down, so my face was close to hers.

      Her eyes widened and she went very still, the sweet scent of jasmine surrounding me. This close I could see how her golden-brown skin glowed, burnished by the light coming through my office window, and how delicate and silky-looking her lashes and eyebrows were. How vulnerable her lovely mouth seemed.

       You goddamn idiot. What the hell are you doing? You know getting close to her is a mistake.

      I did know. But I couldn’t stop myself. I wanted her to do what she was told without argument, because her fighting me was getting me angry and hard, and that simply couldn’t happen. My control was excellent but, as it turned out, not limitless when it came to her.

      I wanted to intimidate her, quell her, make her stop pushing me for once in her goddamn life.

      ‘Do as you’re told,’ I said softly, letting a note of menace bleed through.

      Her expression glazed and I could see something burning in the depths of her eyes. A spark of heat catching fire. As if she found me standing over her mesmerising. As if she liked it.

      My free hand was lifting before I could prevent it, and I took hold of that maddening button and tugged. It came off easily, the plastic warm from her body, and she took a sharp, ragged breath.

      And I looked because I couldn’t not, at the gaping fabric where that button should have been, at the curves of her lovely tits that were now revealed, cupped by the crimson lace of her bra.

      I’d never wanted to touch anything so badly in all my life.

      But this was Poppy. My stepsister. My employee. Who’d lost her father because of me. Whom I’d promised my own father I’d take care of, not claw at her shirt like a fucking animal.

      Her breathing had got faster and I knew I should move away before I did anything stupid. But I stayed where I was and held that button up in front of her face, staring into her furious molten gaze. ‘Oh, look, you’ve lost a button. Can’t have my employees wandering around with their shirts gaping open, can I? So why don’t you stop arguing with me like a damn brat, and go and get yourself some decent bloody clothes?’

      There was fire in her eyes, blazing hot. ‘No.’

      She had no idea just how close to the edge I was. If she had, she’d never have looked up at me like that, fury and challenge pouring off her like heat from asphalt baking all day in the sun. Digging her heels in, making me want to do something to ensure her obedience. Making me want to...

       Calm the fuck down. There’s something else going on here, can’t you see that?

      I don’t know what alerted me. Maybe it was the slight flicker in her gaze, or the almost unnoticeable quiver of her bottom lip. Tiny hints that something wasn’t right.

      I stilled, searching her face, studying her intently. And the more I looked at her, the more I realised that something was definitely wrong. Was that...fear? And if it was, what was she afraid of? Me standing over her? But no, it couldn’t be. I hadn’t mistaken that flare of heat in her eyes when I’d bent down to her. This was something else.

      ‘What is it?’ The question was sharp, a latent protectiveness lighting up inside me.

      Her eyes went even wider and I caught that flicker once again.

      Yes. It was fear.

      ‘Nothing,’ she said quickly. ‘And you’re bloody well harassing me again.’

      But I’d got good at reading people, at searching for lies. And I knew without a shadow of a doubt that she was lying to me right now.

      I tossed the stupid button away and took her chin in my hand so she couldn’t turn away. ‘What is it?’ I repeated. ‘Something’s bothering you and I don’t think it’s me.’

      She’d gone rigid. I could feel the tension in her jaw, the muscle tight beneath the silky heat of her skin, and I tensed too, expecting her to shove me away like she’d done yesterday.

      But she remained still, her expression stubborn. ‘Of course it’s you, you prick. You’re leaning over me and you’re—’

      ‘It’s not. Stop lying to me, Poppy.’

      ‘I’m not buying those goddamned clothes,’ she said through gritted teeth.

      ‘Why not? Because if it’s just to argue with me then—’

      ‘It’s not just to argue with you.’ There was a defiant expression in her eyes now, the look of a soldier determined to go down fighting.

      And I suddenly wanted to soothe her, stroke her lovely jaw with my thumb, tell her that it was okay, that she could tell me. It was disturbing. I didn’t even like the woman, let alone want her to tell me her secrets.

      Instead I demanded, ‘Then why? Surely even you must realise that what you’re wearing isn’t appropriate?’

      ‘Yes, I know that.’

      ‘Then why—?’

      ‘Because I can’t afford to buy any, okay?’