Tarian.
Monday, 3rd November
11:00 a.m.
Two days later…
“Mr.
Roman, this is the best deal we can offer those retailers,” I say, my voice calm, measured and final.
I pace the length of the meeting room, hands clasped behind my back, gaze sharp as I pin each board member in turn.
“We’re talking large scale partnership opportunities with us.
Long term, profitable and strategic.”
I stop pacing and turn slowly.
“Letting them choose the very best we have to offer.”
“But what about the general public?” Mr.
Roman cuts in, worry etching his features.
I smile easily and controlled.
I will almost say playful.
“Not to worry,” I say lightly.
“You forget, we always catch the best.” I pause for a heartbeat.
“And the rest, we give back to the generous sea.”
A few chuckles ripple around the table.
The tension loosens, just as I intended.
“The best will always reach the general market, Mr Roman.” I continue once silence returns.
“But these retailers, global, established, loyal, they are our backbone.
They’ve stayed through lean seasons and hostile waters.
This partnership doesn’t weaken us.
It solidifies us…”
I’m mid sentence when the door flies open.
The sound slices clean through the room.
My words die on my tongue as I snap my head toward the doorway.
There’s a brief struggle, my secretary, flustered, trying and failing to block someone, a woman.
Then the voice comes.
“Do you have room for one more partner, Mr.
Sawyer?”
Voice smooth, low, sultry, sonorous.
It cuts through the room like silk drawn across skin.
The air stills.
Every head turns as one.
The woman stands framed in the doorway like she owns it.
Poised.
Regal.
Unapologetic.
Long, endless legs beneath a tailored black two piece suit.
Curves where they matter.
A cream colored hat shadows her face.
Pearls draped elegantly along a long, graceful neck, disappearing into the V of her jacket where bare skin glows faintly.
I swallow.
My mind scrambles to maintain composure while my body reacts faster than I’d like.
I can’t quite see her face beneath the brim of that hat and somehow, that only sharpens the impact.
“Sir, I tried stopping Miss Amran from interrupting the meeting…” My secretary blurts, breathlessly.
Miss Amran.
Recognition hits me just as she lifts a hand and removes the hat.
Silently, though.
Murieann Amran is devastating.
Blindingly beautiful.
Commanding.
Dangerous.
“You wanted to meet me in person,” she says, voice velvet smooth.
“Well.
Here I am.”
Her gaze locks onto mine, dark, heated, knowing.
Professional words, but personal intent.
“That will be all,” I say coolly to my secretary without breaking eye contact with Murieann Amran.
My secretary hesitates, then leaves.
I move back to my seat at the head of the table, reclaiming my position as presiding chairman.
Murieann doesn’t move.
She watches me like a predator watches another predator circle the same ground.
“Yes,” I say evenly.
“I wanted to meet you in person.”
I plant my palms on the desk.
She glances at my hands, just briefly, before returning her gaze to my face.
“In the same way everyone here would want to meet the woman intending to invest in this company.”
Murmurs ripple through the room, but neither of us reacts.
We’re locked in something two days older than this meeting.
A silent challenge.
A test of will.
She’s a boss.
I’m a boss.
Neither of us backs down.
Finally, she steps into the room, slow and eliberate.
Eyes never leaving mine.
Her hips sway in a rhythm that syncs far too perfectly with my pulse.
Doom…Doom…
“Well,” she says, sweeping her gaze across the board, “Here I am.
Not a monster, as the tabloids like to paint me.” A faint smile curves her lips.
“Not a ghost either.
Though some may disagree.”
I frown slightly.
Ghost?
Then her eyes return to me.
“Mr.
Sawyer,” she says, voice hardening just enough to command the room, “Tell me what reason you would have to refuse a partnership with me, when I’m offering you more than most companies ever would.”
The words land like a gauntlet slammed onto the table.
Every eye turns to me.
I don’t flinch.
“Is that true?” Mr.
Whitfield asks.
Let it press.
Let it weigh heavily.
“Yes,” I say at last.
“It’s true.” I turn to Whitfield calmly.
“And I had a reason.”
I face her again.
“I prefer to know my business partners in person before I commit,” I say evenly.
“That has always been my policy.
I won’t change it now, not even for Miss Amran.”
Her face remains unreadable.
But her eyes sharpen.
“I suggest you reconsider, Tarian.” Mr.
Roman urges, quietly.
“A partnership like this strengthens us globally.”
Their voices fade into background noise.
My attention never leaves her.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I cut into the murmurs sharply.
“This meeting is adjourned.”
The room stills.
Then, one by one, the board members file out, leaving only the two of us in the heavy silence of the boardroom.
“Was that necessary?
Painting me black before them?” I ask lazily, gesturing toward a chair.
She glances at it.
Then deliberately walks past it and sits in my father’s seat.
The other seat of authority.
My eyes widen for half a second before I school my expression.
“Now,” she says smoothly, crossing her legs, “Where were we?”
I take her in fully now.
Her face, striking.
Framed by a shock of long, flowing black hair.
Lips painted a fierce red.
Eyes a piercing blue, like the sea before a storm.
And there, just visible at the V of her jacket a kiss shaped tattoo.
I shake myself internally.
Focus, Tarian.
When our eyes meet, she’s smiling.
She caught me staring at her.
She knows.
And in that moment, I understand the danger.
Murieann Amran would use my attraction to her without hesitation.
“You wanted lunch,” she says.
“Dinner.
Anything.”
She leans forward just slightly.
“I propose a tour of my pearl farm.
My estate in Nantucket.
Wednesday.”
She never breaks eye contact.
Never yields.
I realize, with a slow, unsettling certainty, that my dominion may already be defeated when it comes to this woman and the real battle hasn’t even begun.