DEVON CAME UP for air around an hour after he’d walked into his kitchen.
Clarice tucked the folder she’d brought to go over with him — full of contracts he’d needed to sign, travel documents for an upcoming conference, a proposal for an endorsement deal that had just come into the office that morning — under her arm, bussed him on the cheek, and headed for the front door. “See you Monday,” she called.
He waved and turned for his study. Quite frankly, he was relieved that Clarice was back and that Becca wouldn’t be his secretary any longer.
No conflict of interest. No HR disaster. Just him and her and that explosive chemistry.
Of course, it was more than just heat between them.
Becca was spunky and sweet, wholly capable and enduring. He admired her work ethic, loved how comfortable he felt in just being with her.
Spending time with her was—
Damn.
Devon stopped right there in the hall, his hand coming up to touch his chest. Below his fingers, beneath the muscle and bone and sinew, his heart pounded.
Because he loved her.
Suddenly he needed to be right next to her, to hold her close and tell her exactly what she meant to him.
He hustled down the hall, bursting into the study in a flurry of limbs and—
She wasn’t there.
Frowning, he turned and hightailed it up the stairs.
But his bedroom was empty. The bathroom too. And aside from the containers of food crowding his fridge and dotting his countertops, so was his kitchen.
Not a sign of Becca anywhere.
And the more he searched, the deeper his heart sank.
Finally, he pulled out his phone and called Pascal. “Did you take Becca home?” Maybe she’d left something at her house and hadn’t wanted to interrupt.
A beat of silence.
“Pascal?” he demanded.
“What the hell are you doing to that girl?” Pascal said, his tone as sharp as Devon had ever heard it. Usually, his bodyguard was about as emotional as a piece of plywood. “First you lead her on, then you sleep with her, and then you fire her at the first opportunity. She’s a nice woman and cares — cared…”
Cared?
The past tense was the only reason that Devon stopped and tried to process what Pascal was saying before laying into him.
He was the boss. His people weren’t supposed to question his actions.
Except — guilt sliced through him — those actions were kind of questionable.
And then there was the whole past-tense thing.
Pascal was still talking, but Devon didn’t have time for that. Not when panic was bubbling up in his gut, burning a fiery trail up his throat.
“Did you take her home?”
Pascal stopped ranting, but his reluctance to answer the question was clear in the weighted silence.
“Did you drive her back to her apartment?” Devon pressed.
“Yes.” A grudging response.
His panic calmed slightly. Devon would go over there, explain what had happened. Clarice coming back was a good thing because he and Becca could be together without worry.
“Good. I’m giving you the weekend off. See you bright and early Monday morning.”
“Sir—”
Devon hung up, hit ignore when Pascal called him back. He didn’t have time for phone calls. He had to go make things right with his girl.
A minute later, he’d thrust his feet into shoes and was driving down the street, his recently healed side protesting slightly as he maneuvered. But the pain was negligible, and he couldn’t ignore the niggling in his mind.
The voice in his brain telling him that he needed to get to Becca.
That he needed to let her know how he felt.
That—
When he knocked on her door, she didn’t answer.
He let himself in via the code he’d had the security company make for him and found… her apartment empty. Or at least empty of Becca. All her stuff was there. Her car was even in the lot.
But she wasn’t.
He called her phone. No answer.
He drove to the office. Not a single light on.
When he finally went full circle and drove home, he found she wasn’t there either.
The panic, the same he’d managed to squelch earlier, reared its ugly head.
She was gone.
And it was his fault.