Then he watched the woman tuck her boots in her bag. He narrowed his eyes. He fought irritation. Attraction. Admiration.

Time to clear his morning. “Mandy Keeling?”

She looked up in surprise. “Yes, how did you…” Horror descended on her face, her fingers rising to clutch at her throat. “Oh, no. No, no, no, you can’t be…”

“I’m Damien Sharpton.” The door opened behind him. “The ogre.”

“Eighteenth floor,” the older man said when neither of them moved so much as a muscle.

Damien put out his hand in a polite gesture for her to lead, but his voice was the one he used in the boardroom. The one that was ten times colder than the tone that had reduced Lanie to tears. “After you, Ms. Keeling. My office is at the end of the hall, last door on the left. I’ll try to be brief.”

He expected her to wither. Stammer. Cry. Retreat. Shake her head no, let the elevator door close behind her, and ride her little germ-infested self right out of his life.

She didn’t.

Through tight lips, she simply said, “Thank you,” and started down the hall, listing to the right a little like she was on a ship at sea.

His interest and respect rose another reluctant inch or two.

Mandy bit back a whimper and clutched her bag in one hand, her stomach in the other.

Bugger it. Now, what were the odds of encountering Damien Sharpton on the elevator? And her calling him an ogre, of all things. It was so heinous it was almost funny.

She winced, and not from the pinch of her swollen feet in heels.

So much for a nine-to-five job that would make day care easier to secure. She wasn’t going to be given this position, for obvious reasons, but she needed to at least try and redeem herself on the interview so there weren’t repercussions for Caroline.

Which meant no referring to Damien as Demon Sharpton.

The door to his office was closed, which didn’t surprise her. In the minutes they’d been on the elevator together, she had sensed his tension, his tightness, his impatient energy brimming beneath the surface. Behind her now, she could feel his presence. Looming, firm, judging, his feet making hard strides, his suit rustling as he slowed down to keep pace with her snail speed. His breath coming out in exasperated bursts that he covered with a cough.

She knew his type. Her father was one. A man with no patience, no interest in anything other than his work. A man who didn’t understand why the whole world didn’t move at the same frantic, obsessive rate as he did.