Temptation: Breaking Victoria Sharp

"Of course." James moved toward the door, then paused, his hand on the handle. "Victoria?"

She looked up despite herself, meeting his gaze across the span of her office.

"Nice color choice for the Singapore presentation," he said quietly, his fingers brushing against the burgundy cashmere. "Burgundy suits you."

The door closed behind him before Victoria could formulate a response, leaving her staring at the space he had occupied with her heart hammering against her ribs.

He was doing this deliberately. The realization should have irritated her, should have triggered her usual response to manipulation or attempted influence. Instead, Victoria found herself oddly breathless, her carefully maintained composure wavering in ways that alarmed and intrigued her in equal measure.

Tuesday brought a different kind of sophistication: a deep forest green cable-knit sweater that hugged James's athletic frame like a second skin, paired with light wash jeans that were clearly designer, perfectly fitted and expensive and brown leather loafers that spoke of Italian craftsmanship. The ensemble was casual yet refined, the kind of look that required confidence to carry off in a corporate environment.

The green was the exact shade of the dress Victoria had worn to the company's anniversary celebration last year prior.

James mentioned the regulatory consultant's preliminary feedback while standing close enough that she could see the intricate pattern of the cable knit, smell the subtle spice of his cologne, notice how the sweater's color brought out flecks of green in his dark eyes. The way the knit clung to his broad shoulders and defined biceps made Victoria's mouth go unexpectedly dry.

Wednesday delivered sophistication in the form of a charcoal gray turtleneck soft wool that emphasized every line of James's muscular torso paired with tailored black chinos, a black leather dress boots and blazers. A silver watch adorned his wrist, matching the one, Victoria wore daily, a watch James had certainly seen thousands of times during their years of working together. He presented the updated Singapore documentation with quiet efficiency, his proximity during the presentation sending unwelcome heat through her bloodstream as she tried not to stare at how the turtleneck showcased his athletic build.

By Thursday, Victoria was beginning to feel like prey being stalked by an exceptionally patient predator.

She stood before her own mirror that morning, studying her reflection with the same analytical precision she applied to market research. The black sheath dress was one of her favorites, well-tailored, professional, flattering without being obvious. She had paired it with her grandmother's pearl necklace and the silver watch James seemed to have memorized.

Yet as she prepared for the day, Victoria found herself wondering what James would wear, what subtle message his clothing choices would send. The thought irritated her immensely, this preoccupation with her strategic officer's wardrobe choices. She was Victoria Sharp, for God's sake. She built companies, navigated international regulations, dissolved boards when they failed to meet her standards. She did not spend her mornings wondering about men's fashion choices.

Except, apparently, she did.

James arrived at her office at 8:45 AM wearing a black merino wool crew neck sweater that fit his athletic frame like armor every muscle defined beneath the soft fabric paired with charcoal dress pants and black leather Oxford shoes. The sweater was clearly expensive, the kind of piece that looked simple but spoke to sophisticated taste and substantial budget. The effect was striking, powerful, confident, and entirely too appealing.

"Ready for lunch with Morrison?" he asked, settling into his usual chair with that new air of quiet command that made Victoria's pulse skip. The sweater stretched across his broad chest as he leaned back, the fabric outlining every line of his well-developed torso.

Morrison. The regulatory consultant. Victoria had forgotten entirely about the lunch meeting, too distracted by James's evolving presentation to focus on the practical matters at hand.

"Of course," she replied smoothly, reaching for her calendar to review the details she should have memorized. "Remind me of the key points we need to address."

James outlined their strategy with his usual thoroughness, but Victoria once again found herself studying the way his hands moved as he spoke, strong, capable hands that looked even more masculine outlined with veins emerging from the black wool sleeves. The precise articulation of his words, the slight smile that played at the corners of his mouth when he caught her watching him.

He knew exactly what he was doing. The realization should have triggered her competitive instincts, her determination to regain control of the situation. Instead, Victoria felt something that might have been anticipation, a flutter of awareness that had nothing to do with business strategy and everything to do with the man sitting across from her desk.

"Victoria?" James's voice pulled her back to the present. "Did you want to review the Morrison file before we leave?"

"Yes," she said quickly, grateful for the distraction. "Send it to my tablet. I'll review it during the drive."

"I'll drive."

"No. That is why I hired Davidson." Victoria immediately rejected. The idea of being together, all alone with him kept her on edge.

"It's no biggie," James offered, standing with fluid grace that made the sweater pull tight across his athletic back. "Morrison's office is in downtown traffic. It'll be easier to coordinate arrival if we go together."

The suggestion was perfectly reasonable, entirely practical besides this was a professional setting. Something they did almost all the time while he was still her assistant. She would not be shaken. Victoria found herself nodding agreement before she could analyze the wisdom of spending forty minutes in close quarters with James while he was conducting whatever campaign he had launched against her professional composure.

The drive to Morrison's office became an exercise in controlled torture. James drove with the same quiet competence he brought to everything else, navigating downtown traffic while maintaining easy conversation about regulatory requirements and market positioning. Yet Victoria found herself hyperaware of his hands on the steering wheel, strong hands that emerged from black wool sleeves, the way his sweater stretched across his shoulders when he changed lanes, the subtle spice of his cologne in the confined space of the car.

Why is she so distracted about his hands? What is so special about it? Get a grip!

"Morrison mentioned concerns about our data sovereignty protocols," James said as they waited at a red light. "I've prepared responses to the most likely questions, but we should be ready for anything."

"Mmm," Victoria replied, focusing determinedly on the Morrison file displayed on her tablet. The words seemed to blur together as her peripheral vision unconsciously tracked the movement of James's hand again as he adjusted the radio volume, noting how the black wool emphasized the definition in his forearms.