Chapter 15: The Balcony

Jordan took a step closer.

Close enough to smell her perfume. Close enough to see the pulse beating at her throat. Close enough to lose himself if he wasn’t careful.

“Then let me be honest about something else,” he said quietly.

“I don’t deserve a chance with you. I know that. I’ve been a blind, arrogant fool who took the best thing in his life completely for granted.”

“But I’m asking anyway.”

“Give me this weekend, Martina. Let me prove I can see you. Really see you.”

“And if by Sunday you still think Marcus Ashford is a better choice, I’ll accept it. I’ll let you go. I’ll even write you a reference for whatever job you want, wherever you want.”

“But give me this.”

“And if I say no?” she whispered.

“Then we check into separate hotels. Conduct our business meeting tomorrow like professionals. And fly home Sunday with nothing changed.”

Jordan’s hand lifted, almost touching her face.

Stopping just short.

“But I’m begging you, Martina. Don’t say no. Not yet.”

She looked at him for a long moment.

Jordan saw five years of emotion flicker across her face. Love. Hurt. Hope. Fear. Exhaustion.

And finally, something that looked like resignation.

“One weekend,” she said softly.

“Forty-eight hours. And then we go back to reality.”

“Forty-eight hours,” Jordan agreed.

And tried to ignore the feeling that he’d just been given a death sentence with a temporary stay of execution.

The suite was obscene.

Not just large. Obscene.

Three bedrooms. Four bathrooms. A living room that could host a small wedding. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Place Vendôme.

Furniture that probably cost more than Martina’s yearly salary.

A balcony that wrapped around two sides of the building.

Martina stood in the center of the living room, still holding her overnight bag, looking lost.

“Take the master bedroom,” Jordan said, pointing to the largest of the three rooms.

“I’ll take one of the others.”

“Jordan—”

“We need to change for dinner.”

He deliberately didn’t let her finish whatever professional protest she was about to make.

“The meeting with the French consortium is at 8:30 at Jules Verne. It’s in the Eiffel Tower. The dress code is formal. Very formal.”

“Which means you need something more than what you packed for a business trip.”

“I have a perfectly appropriate black suit—”

“Which will make you look like my assistant.”

Jordan interrupted gently.

“And tonight, Martina, I need you to be my equal. My partner. Not my secretary.”

“There’s a boutique downstairs. Go choose something that makes you feel powerful. Put it on my account.”

“I’m not letting you buy me clothes—”

“It’s a business expense. You’re representing Blackwell Enterprises at a crucial negotiation. Think of it as a uniform.”

“Jordan—”

“Please.”

The word came out more vulnerable than he intended.

“Let me do this one thing right.”

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