WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 26

Oliver stared in irritated puzzlement at the redhead currently glaring across the desk like she was trying to crush his windpipe Darth Vader–style.

Naomi . . . what was her last name again? He glanced once more at the paperwork. Powell. First impression? Slightly scary. Well, no. That was second impression. His first impression of the woman had been hot. Very, very hot.

Regardless, Naomi Powell was not what he’d expected when Vicky had strong-armed him into conducting this BS interview. For starters, the hair was all wrong. He’d been prepared for silver, not vibrant red. The rest of her was vibrant as well. The people in this building weren’t exactly prone to outbursts of sentiment, but she seemed to crackle with emotion.

Most of the time, Oliver Cunningham didn’t mind living in 517 Park Avenue. Sure, most of the people acted like their silver spoon had been shoved where the sun never shined. And yes, he was the youngest resident by a good thirty years.

But there were upsides. The board had agreed to let him tear down the wall between his kitchen and living room to create a rare, open-concept home on Park Avenue. The change made room for his top-of-the-line kitchen and seventy-inch flat-screen. And though he didn’t particularly relish the “bragging rights” of living in the same building he’d grown up in, he appreciated that he could care for his father while still maintaining his own life. Sort of.

In other words, his place of residence was tolerable. Most of the time.

But then, there were times like now. Times when a rare vacancy occurred and the whole damn building turned more ridiculous than a sorority during rush. As Oliver saw it, the co-op process was little more than an opportunity for octogenarians of the Upper East Side to assert their flawless lineage, delighting in making those who didn’t have some obscure connection to a Vanderbilt or Rockefeller feel inferior.

Oliver tried not to have any part of it, but he’d caved for Vicky’s sake. It wasn’t the longtime receptionist’s fault that with Oliver’s mother dead and his father out of commission, the Cunningham co-op duties fell to him. Like it or not, he had to step up. And to be clear, he did not like it. But since it would be Vicky’s head on the chopping block if Oliver didn’t obey orders and conduct the damn interview, here he was.

Still, Oliver hadn’t been expecting her.

In addition to the red hair and strange animosity coming off her in waves, her face was . . . captivating. She was attractive in that intriguing “look again” kind of way. Her eyes were wide and blue and tilted at the corners, her mouth full and lush and a little bit sulky at the moment. Plenty of freckles that, as far as he could tell, she’d made no effort to cover with heavy makeup. Different from the perfectly symmetrical, made-up features he was used to seeing.

Still, none of this quite explained the death glare Naomi had locked on him. Generally speaking, Oliver didn’t tend to elicit strong emotional reactions from women. Mostly he got a lot of exasperated sighs preceding long, calm dissertations about his inability to demonstrate emotion, followed by a bland parting of ways.

There was nothing bland about this woman.

Instinct took over, and years of following formal societal rules demanded Oliver extend his hand across the desk. “Ms. Powell. I’m Oliver Cunningham.”

Her hesitation was plain, and for a baffling moment, he thought she might actually refuse his handshake.

Eventually she set her palm to his, and though the firm shake was routine, his reaction to it was anything but. His stomach tightened as her palm brushed his, and Oliver clenched his teeth.

Good Lord, had it been so long since he’d been with a woman that handshakes were doing it for him now?

He pulled his hand back and cleared his throat.

“All right, Ms. Powell,” he said, his voice just a touch cool to counter the heat inside him. “I’m assuming if you’ve made it this far, your credit and background checks pass muster, so let’s get right to it. Why do you want to live here?”

He heard her inhale as though trying to get a grip on her temper, although what he’d done to set her off, he didn’t have the faintest clue.

“It’s a lovely building. The prewar architecture is exquisite,” she replied.

His stomach tightened even further. That voice. Low, husky, and seductive as hell.

Get yourself together, Cunningham.

He forced himself to focus on her words, which were as dull as the voice was compelling. Prewar architecture?

He knew plenty of people cared about that crap, but he wasn’t one of them. And for some reason, he hadn’t thought she would be either. Damn. Disappointing.

Oliver leaned back in his chair, picking up the folder and tapping it against his palm as he contemplated the best method for getting her out the door as quickly as possible. Later, a dry-aged rib eye, an ice-cold cocktail, and the Yankees game awaited. Not to mention the two-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle he was dying to dig into. Not that he would ever mention the last around the office, or, well, ever. As his former fiancée had pointed out, there was something a little weird about a grown man who enjoyed puzzles.

Oliver disagreed. It’s not as though he laminated and framed the finished puzzles for some sort of weird display. He just enjoyed solving things. Jigsaws. Sudoku. Crosswords . . . People.

“Where do you live now?” Oliver asked, realizing the silence had stretched too long.

“I’m sure it’s in my file,” she said with a wooden smile.

Oliver said nothing, and they had a silent staring—glaring?—contest that was as exhilarating as it was childish.

He won, only because her eyes rolled briefly in irritation. “Lower East Side.”

Oliver nodded. He hadn’t spent much time on the Lower East Side since his college days, but the neighborhood suited her. Vibrant, youthful, and just the slightest bit gritty.

It was also a long way from the Upper East Side, in vibe, if not distance.

Oliver lifted his eyebrows to be deliberately provoking and said as much. “Long trek.”

“Yes, the two-mile cab ride was absolutely exhausting.”

The folder paused just briefly in its tapping against his palm. Odd. Something about her expression and that dry sarcasm felt . . . familiar. He scanned his memory but came up blank. He didn’t have a lot of gingers in his acquaintance. He’d have remembered her.

“Two miles is a lot in Manhattan,” he said.

“Too true,” she said with another of those “smiles” that wasn’t even remotely friendly. “Two miles in this city can mean the difference between real people and pretension.”

Oliver’s jaw clenched. He did not lose his temper often, but this woman was seriously pushing his buttons.

“All right, I give up, Ms. Powell. What’s your deal?”

“My deal?”

“You’ve been eyeing my jugular since I walked in the door.”

He waited for her to deny it. Instead, she inspected her manicure. A deep navy, he noted, and not the demure pale pink or classic red he was used to seeing. And yet everything else, the expensive-looking dress, the brand-name handbag, the sleek hairstyle, was expected, just like every other woman he knew.

But there was something else there—something more interesting that he couldn’t put his finger on. Almost like she was a blend of self-confidence and vulnerability all wound into one feisty, compelling package.

She was a contradiction.

Maybe Oliver didn’t need to start that jigsaw puzzle tonight, after all. He had a hell of a puzzle right in front of him.

“You do realize that I’m the gatekeeper to the next round,” he prodded again.

She craned her neck, pretending to look at his hands. “Oh, is there a ring I was supposed to kiss? I’m new to this whole process. Should I bow?”

There it was again. The flash of familiarity. Who was this woman?

“Have we met?” he asked, tossing the folder on the desk as he studied her.

She looked away, and Oliver’s eyes narrowed. “We have. How do I know you?”

Naomi looked back, her eyes guarded. “You don’t.”

“You sure?”

Instead of replying, she rewarded him with her first genuine smile. And damn, what a smile it was. Seductive and lethal all at the same time.

He was still reeling from its impact when she startled him by standing.

“We’re not done,” he said, then hid a wince at how pompous he sounded. How much like his father he sounded.

“Oh, I think we are,” she murmured. “I think we both know exactly what you’re going to write on my application the second I leave.”

“Yeah, we do,” he snapped, standing up, too. “Left interview early.”

She glared up at him, and Oliver was a little surprised to realize that they were both breathing hard.

Naomi Powell wasn’t particularly short, but at six feet, he had the physical advantage. For the first time since he’d hit his growth spurt in high school, he relished his height. This perplexing woman got under his skin like nobody had in a long time, and he needed every defense he could get.

Just as he was gearing up for her retort—anticipating it—she turned away.

Oliver called after her. “You understand that I’m not going to recommend you for the next round of interviews, right?”

“No problem, Mr. Cunningham. And look on the bright side. With me gone, there’ll be more room for your emperor complex up in here. I’ll send your secretary in. You’re looking a bit overdue for your daily hand-feeding of grapes.”

Naomi sailed out the office door without so much as a backward glance.

Oliver stood staring at the doorway, feeling somewhere between dumbfounded and off balance. And most annoyingly of all . . .

Intrigued.

Who the hell was that woman?