Page 25 of Diego

I have options.

Good options.

I hope.

I straighten my jacket and force myself to stop checking the time. Nervousness is allowed internally. Externally, I am Blair Owens, broker at The Meridian Group, and I have absolutely done this before.

Just perhaps not with a client who can fire everyone now sitting in the building behind me.

A black car turns onto the street, and I notice it immediately.

My attention locks onto the front grille first, then travels over the long hood and unmistakable lines as it approaches the curb.

Oh.

That is an Aston Martin DB5.

A black Aston Martin DB5.

For one second, every concern about listings, employment, and proving myself disappears beneath pure appreciation. I have seen restored DB5s at shows before, but I have never seen one being casually driven through downtown Chicago on a weekday morning as though it is merely transportation.

Dad would have lost his mind.

I move closer to the curb without realizing I am doing it, studying the car as it pulls in, surprising me. It is gorgeous, the kind of gorgeous that does not come from aggressive styling or unnecessary flash.

Everything about it is proportion coupled with restraint—the long hood, rounded roofline, chrome trim, and bodywork from an era when cars were allowed to look like they had been designed by people rather than software.

Then I realize Diego Conti is behind the wheel.

That surprises me almost as much as the car.

For some reason, I had expected him to have a driver. Maybe it is the money. Maybe it is Randall nearly bowing yesterday. Maybe I have unconsciously placed Diego into the category of men who get into the back of expensive cars while someone else worries about traffic.

Instead, he pulls up to the curb himself.

The engine cuts off, and a moment later his door opens.

Diego unfolds himself from the car in a dark suit and sunglasses, and whatever composure I spent the last several minutes assembling takes an immediate hit. He was attractive yesterday across the office. He is substantially more attractive when he is walking directly toward me.

I hate that my first thought about one of the owners of my company is that his shoulders look exceptionally good in that jacket.

My second is not much better. And it's a hell of a lot less appropriate.

He takes off his sunglasses as he reaches me, and his gaze moves over me with enough open appreciation that pretending I imagined yesterday’s flirtation would be impossible.

“Blair.”

The way he says my name makes it sound as though he has been looking forward to using it.

I smile and hold out my hand. “Good morning, Mr. Conti.”

His eyes flick toward my hand before he takes it.

Instead of shaking it, he lifts it toward his mouth and presses a kiss to the back of my fingers.

There are men who could do this and make me want to crawl directly out of my own skin.

Apparently, Diego Conti is not one of them.