The Dare Collection January 2019. JC HarrowayЧитать онлайн книгу.

       CHAPTER FIVE

      Xander

      POPPY WAS LATE.

      I stood by the windows in my office, looking down at the view of the street far below and the entrance to the building. The stream of people flooding into the offices had slowed to a trickle, just the late arrivals now, rushing towards the doors.

      By God, one of them had better be her.

      I shouldn’t be surprised that she wasn’t here yet but somehow I was and now my temper was straining at the leash.

      Maybe she wouldn’t turn up at all.

      Maybe she’d been playing with me when she’d said she’d take the job. Certainly she’d done enough of that as a kid. When I was supposed to be looking after her she’d suddenly disappear, which then involved a frantic search for her, only to have her turn up, sometimes hours later, in her bedroom or somewhere innocuous, looking all innocent.

      Or when I was busy with study and needing quiet, she’d come into whichever area I was studying in and start playing loud games. Or sing. Or play music.

      Even in my bedroom I wasn’t safe since her room had been next to mine. She’d put her music on and turn the volume up, the bass thumping through the walls. And when I politely told her to turn it down, she’d ignore me.

      She seemed to live to drive me crazy and it looked like nothing had changed.

      Turning from the window, I went back to my desk and tried to finish some last-minute tasks I had to tie up before I could get stuck in to my project. But as the minutes ticked by I found it harder and harder to concentrate.

      Insanity. I’d never had this problem before. Normally the issue tended to be that I got so consumed in work that I lost track of time, not that I couldn’t concentrate in the first place.

      Eventually, I shoved my chair back, got to my feet, pacing like a caged animal to get rid of the impatience that burned in my blood.

      Fifteen minutes late and counting.

      Was she doing this deliberately? Didn’t she understand what a ‘good reference’ meant? Yes, she might have got caught up in traffic or missed the bus, or train, or whatever transport situation she had to contend with, but at the very least she could have texted me that she’d be late. That would have been the courteous thing to do. Then again, when had Poppy ever been courteous?

      Never. Not even the first day she’d arrived at our house. I’d been all set to welcome her, to try to be the kind of big brother figure my own brothers had been for me—someone she could count on to protect her, to take care of her. But she’d responded to all my attempts at friendly conversation with silence. Her chin had been set, her gaze hostile, and nothing I said or did had made any difference.

      She seemed hell-bent on hating me right from the get-go.

       If she knew what you’d done she’d hate you even more.

      The thought insinuated itself in my head, snide and sharp. I ignored it.

      Pacing over to the windows, I glanced at my watch yet again.

      Nine o’clock.

      Half an hour. She was fucking half an hour late.

      I was on the point of reaching for my phone to call her and demand where the hell she was, when I heard my office door open.

      There was only one person who entered without knocking and that was Ajax, and I wasn’t due for a meeting with him.

      I turned round sharply to find Poppy sauntering in, leaving the door wide open behind her.

      ‘Hey,’ she said casually, coming to a stop in front of my desk. ‘Well, here I am.’

      For a second words failed me. Because not only was she half an hour late, she was in black skinny jeans with rips in the knee, a tight-fitting black shirt that strained the button right between her beautiful tits and a pair of black basketball boots.

      She looked like a high school student ready to go to class, not a twenty-five-year-old woman about to start a new corporate job.

      Jesus. Did she really think that what she was wearing was appropriate? Or had she done that deliberately to annoy the shit out of me?

      ‘Sit down,’ I ordered, my tolerance for games at an all-time low.

      Instantly her straight dark brows arrowed down. ‘You don’t need to—’

      ‘Sit. Down.’

      A flare of anger turned her golden-brown eyes molten. Her mouth opened and I readied myself for a fight. But then she suddenly shut it again and smirked instead, wandering over to the chair opposite my desk and making a big production of sitting in it. Then she leaned back like she was sitting on the sofa at home, crossing her ankles and generally pretending not to be fazed by my order in the slightest.

      Little witch.

      I didn’t speak immediately, letting her sit there as I strode to the door and shut it. Then I came back to my desk, but didn’t sit. Instead I stood in front of it, crossing my arms, staring down at Poppy. Letting her see in no uncertain terms just how pissed off I was.

      ‘You’re late,’ I said flatly. ‘I told you to be here on time.’

      She shrugged. ‘I had a problem with—’

      ‘And your clothes are inappropriate.’

      ‘Yeah, well, I don’t—’

      ‘One chance, Poppy.’ I kept my voice cold. ‘One chance is all you get and already you’re blowing it.’

      The smooth golden skin of her cheeks reddened. ‘If you’d let me finish, then maybe I could give you an explanation.’

      I didn’t want to hear her explanation. Not that I could focus on it anyway because that damn button on her shirt kept pulling every time she breathed in, drawing my attention inexorably to the shape of her breasts. To the fullness of them. To the delicious curve of them under the faded black cotton.

      ‘I was late because Mum ran out of her meds and I had to go to the pharmacy to get her prescription.’ She took another breath, that damn button pulling tighter. Some of the threads had broken. Christ, it wouldn’t take much for it to simply pop off.

       You should probably not be looking at it.

      No, I probably shouldn’t.

      With an effort I dragged my gaze from her shirt to her face. ‘Your mother can’t get her own prescription?’