If she could have doubled over in pain, Ziara would have. Instead, she felt locked in a swirling fog that mixed old accusations with new ones. Vivian turned toward the door but paused before leaving. “Ziara,” she said without turning around. “Rest assured, if Sloan doesn’t get rid of you when he’s done, then I will. There’s no place at Eternity Designs for smut like you.”
Her exit was as quiet as her arrival.
With an unnatural calm, Ziara put the lid back on the box. The memories called up by the piece of jewelry had more power to hurt her than even the threat of losing her position here. Under normal circumstances, she could have buried them quickly and gone about her day, but these weren’t normal circumstances.
Rising to her feet, she walked into Sloan’s office without her usual knock. He looked up in surprise from the papers he’d been perusing on the desktop. “Was that Vivian I heard out there?” he asked.
He glanced from her face to the box in her hand. “I saw that in Vegas. I hope you like it.”
Leaning forward, she placed the box squarely on his desk in a parody of the way she’d found it. He looked up in confusion, allowing her to meet his gaze straight on.
“Just so you know,” she said, her voice calm but hollow, “I don’t require payment for services rendered.”
Then she turned on her heel and stalked out.
* * *
As dusk deepened to full dark several hours later, Ziara heard Sloan’s Mercedes purr into her driveway. She’d been half expecting it, half dreading it. The stubbornness of his personality wouldn’t let him leave her alone after their earlier scene.
And she wasn’t anywhere near ready for him to be here.
Her eyes were probably still puffy from crying on the way home. She hadn’t cried in a long time, but twice in a month was unheard-of. The emotional release after everything that had happened proved inescapable.
The loss of control bothered her because it wasn’t her. She was the cool one, stable, clearheaded. But today she’d turned into a crying, hurting mess, desperate to close the door on a past that had reared its ugly head despite her attempts to get as far away as possible.
And it was All. His. Fault.
Not waiting for him to knock, she jerked the door open as he marched up the stone walkway. Pressure built inside as her anger swelled. Anger at him. At Vivian and her accusations. At the gift. At her lack of control. At her need for him, even after everything.
Catching sight of her in the doorway, he stopped short in surprise. “What do you want?” Because if he thought he was getting sex, he was sadly mistaken. No matter that her body clamored at the sight of him. The latent desire added another layer of dirt to her already soiled soul.
“Can I come in?”
Those commonplace, even words destroyed the last of her manners. Turning away, she left the door open for him to enter if he wanted to—she had no doubt that he would, even though she made it clear he wasn’t welcome.
She stopped moving in the middle of the living room. Turning to face him, her arms instinctively crossed over her stomach to protect herself from any ugliness to come. She thought she’d escaped all the drama when she’d finally moved from her mother’s house. But like her shadow, it had a way of catching up with her.
Sloan carefully—too carefully—closed the door, then approached her with cautious steps.
“Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” He paused, and when she didn’t answer, he continued. “Or am I going to have to drag it out of you?”
The anger that crept through her like lava spurred her to speak. It strengthened her backbone and lifted her chin. “I thought I made myself clear at the office.”
“You think I’m paying you for sex?” His incredulous tone jarred her.
“I’m your employee. We...slept together. Then you gave me expensive jewelry. What am I supposed to think?”
That full mouth twisted. “Oh, maybe that it’s a gift?”
“Vivian certainly didn’t think that.”
His eyes widened when he heard his stepmother’s name. Ziara squeezed her arms tighter, hoping to hold in the tide of hurt and anger. She should have known going for a guy outside the safe zone would leave her feeling like a slut. So her self-image was a little skewed—years of bullying at home and school would do that. But Vivian’s words had convinced her that she was repeating history.
Everything she’d felt for Sloan up until now—the dizzying rush of desire, need and freedom—wasn’t pure at all. Just shameful. No one really needed another person that strongly. It had to be a mirage, a fantasy.
“What does Vivian have to do with this?” He stepped closer, one measured movement at a time. Ziara retreated until the back of her knees hit the side of the chaise.