Elena eyed her. “Aren’t you bold?” She sighed.

Maddie wished she’d just put her out of her misery. A single bullet between the eyes would be better than this. Faster, too. She looked down. “Okay, well, I get it. Finally. Let’s just forget that I ever said anything, and we can go our separate—”

“You are an intriguing woman, Madeleine.”

Maddie’s head snapped up.

“Smart, unique, and talented,” Elena continued. “You create art with words and food. I told you once, I appreciate beauty…” Her gaze slid over Maddie’s body. “In all its forms.”

Maddie tensed, waiting for the “but”.

“Anyone should be proud to date you.”

She squeezed her eyes shut.

“Including me.”

Maddie’s eyes flashed open. “What?”

“But not now.”

She stared at Elena, startled.

“I thought I was quite clear. At the Duchamp show? I was openly appreciative. I assure you I have never…done that with anyone before. But you are inspiring. You robbed my lungs of breath on that catwalk. You were a revelation. Honestly, can you truly not read my mind on this? How much I desire you?”

“I didn’t want to be wrong.” Maddie spread her hands. “You’re Elena Bartell! And I’m just…” She glanced at herself. “I’m just the woman with a hangover, who thought she’d blown it.”

“I do know the feeling.” Elena gave her a rueful look. “On both counts.”

Now that she said it, Maddie could see the tiredness around Elena’s eyes that no amount of make-up could entirely hide.

Elena rose from the sofa, and Maddie scrambled to her feet.

“I know it hasn’t been an hour, but I really am on deadline. Would you mind telling Natalii I have…satisfied you?” Her eyes crinkled with amusement.

“Only if you promise to actually do so later.” Maddie grinned at her own audacity.

“Really, Madeleine.” Elena tsked and took a step closer. “I believe you’re flirting with me.”

Maddie shot her a lopsided smile.

“It’s a shame I’m still married and have no wish to risk losing the high moral ground during the divorce.” Elena shot her an indignant look and swayed closer. “Or I’d kiss that smug smile right off your beautiful face.”

Elena lifted her index finger and trailed the contours of Maddie’s face, as though seriously considering it.

Maddie shivered and detected a tantalising hint of perfume. “I’d never tell,” she said in a whisper. She edged forward. “No one would ever know.”

“I’d know.” Elena dropped her fingers and disappointment surged through Maddie. “I would think of nothing else if we…” Elena sighed and, shifted her hands to Maddie’s shirt collar. She tugged her nearer and impatiently closed the gap.

It was an urgent kiss and Maddie met it with passion. Heat shot through her. Her knees weakened at the softness of her, the sweetness of their kiss. Their tongues met, and Maddie clung to Elena’s waist as the arousing sensations threatened to undo her on the spot.

Elena gave a tiny, frustrated sigh and pulled away. Looking annoyed with herself, cheeks high with colour, she let out a ragged breath.

“That never happened,” Elena said. With a rueful expression, she reached forward to wipe the lipstick off Maddie’s mouth using her thumb. She did it slowly, as though hoping to also remove the kiss. She stopped and tapped Maddie’s lip. “I wish…” She shook her head. “Many things. But until I’m divorced, we never did that.”

“Did what?” Maddie asked with an air of innocence. “We were just talking.”

Elena smiled and leaned her forehead against Maddie’s. Her breath was warm against her lips. “I wish we could ‘talk’ longer, Madeleine, but I have to…”

She pulled back and glanced at her watch, her expression tightening. Her eyes met Maddie’s, searching.

Maddie nodded. “It’s fine. Go.” She stepped back.

Elena paused, and then her lips gave a quirk as she shouldered her bag. “We’re done,” she said, injecting her trademark haughty steel into it, enough to make Maddie’s breath catch as desire rippled through her again.

Elena’s eyes, lit with a knowing amusement, held Maddie’s. And then she was out the door.

No, Maddie told her thudding heart, they were definitely not done.

CHAPTER 32

Dear Foolish Girl

Elena sat at her desk, on the penthouse office floor of Bartell Corp, gazing over New York’s skyline. The impressive view from her wide, curving windows held little sway. She should be celebrating. The official figures were in. The Duchamp issue had smashed every sales record and corrected Style Sydney’s circulation dive, bringing in new readers as well as most of the wavering ones who had dipped their toe in over at CQ.

Globally, Style International had never been stronger. So, she’d returned to her head office, ready for the next challenge. She was back where she belonged, she told Perry. The man had uttered a mangled half snort and given her a disbelieving look, which she chose not to acknowledge.

Of course she wasn’t oblivious to his opinion. In fact, Madeleine and Perry seemed to share a certain viewpoint. But Elena hadn’t built up one of the largest media corporations in the world just to throw it all away on following her teenage, fashion-editing dreams. Winning was not without sacrifice. And she did enjoy winning.

So…why didn’t she feel better?

Elena was starting to wonder whether she was cursed. The Richard mess was bad enough. It had been unnerving, also, to discover that her inconvenient interest in Madeleine had not disappeared the moment she’d installed her as an assistant in Sydney and started treating her like one. Madeleine had taken her behaviour as a hint to withdraw from her, becoming a perfectly professional assistant. Just as she’d hoped.

Except it was a loss she’d felt more keenly than she’d ever imagined. If anything, her appreciation had grown the more she pushed Madeleine away. She’d started noticing the things she missed. Her beaming smile. Her laugh. Her wry commentary on life. The way she used to study Elena, her eyebrows knitted, as though amazed that someone like her actually existed in the world. The way her face brightened whenever Elena wore her vest outfit. She’d taken to wearing it more often, just to get a reaction.

Elena had been in denial. She could see that now. Looking back, it was so clear. With a single intrigued glance from Madeleine, Elena had felt more alive than she ever had before.

She’d assumed her confounding fascination with Madeleine would pass, eventually. The veil of denial was ripped from her at the Duchamp show. The sight of Madeleine on the catwalk made her hungry. Elena had been helpless to stop herself when she had the freedom and privilege to touch. Just for a moment. The memory of her fingertips trailing soft skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake, had distracted her at inopportune times for weeks. There was little doubt, after that night, what this was. This was not friendship or passing attraction. It was something alive. It burned hot and deep.

Elena wasn’t just scared of losing it all. Or losing herself. If only it were just that. But it was all so impossible. There were so many reasons this was a terrible idea. She was fifteen years older. In charge of a global business empire. Separated. She had a reputation to uphold. She couldn’t have some clichéd, midlife-crisis fling with the secretary. This was impossible.

It was.

And then along came that ball. It was, what, a month ago now? Elena had experienced such a vulgar stab of jealousy at the thought of Madeleine involved with that war photographer. Her reaction had been as unexpected as it was extreme. Elena generally avoided emotional extremes. But out of nowhere, this had smacked her between the eyes like a fist. Anger. Betrayal. Desire. And so much jealousy. The ugliness of the sensations crawled around her belly. It had been unnerving how biting the pain had felt at the idea of her Madeleine locked in a kiss with that woman. The chaos of the emotions was terrifying.

A month spent trying to understand what it meant had left an inescapable conclusion. Her heart had laid claim to the woman. Madeleine was hers. No wonder she hadn’t recognised it at first. She had never felt this connection, this sensation, about anyone before.

The next day, Elena’s mood had turned vile when she’d heard the nasty little rumour about what Hunter was saying about Madeleine. She had been murderous at the thought of that woman sliding her fingers over soft skin, kissing the freckles along the bridge of Madeleine’s nose, burying herself in her hair, savouring her scent. Then the call came in from Perry revealing Natalii Duchamp’s demand that she report to Madeleine.