The Rome Affair. Addison Fox

      “Bastard.” She muttered the word under her breath as her gaze danced from the card to the glorious beauties that winked from the top of her office garbage can. On a weary sigh, she reached in and retrieved the roses. With the exception of one slightly bent stem and a few missing petals on the flowers that edged the bouquet, her aim had been quite good.

      Further proof he’d purchased excellent flowers from one of the city’s top suppliers.

      Kensington laid the roses back in the large white flower box and resolved to have her assistant handle the arranging. At least she could get them out of her sight.

      A loud honk outside pulled her attention from the flowers, and she crossed her office to the windows that fronted the family brownstone that now served as the headquarters for the House of Steele. Their Upper East Side street was normally quiet and the racket currently taking place on the street below—two cabdrivers who’d clearly disagreed on who had the right of way on the tight street—was rare.

      About as rare as losing a major contract.

      The word bastard rose once more to her lips but she tamped it down. She wasn’t a sore loser and didn’t hold those who were in high regard. But damn it, her bid package had been flawless. So had the one two months ago when she’d gone up against Jack Andrews for the museum job in Memphis. And three months ago on the gallery opening in San Francisco. And five months ago for the Ming Dynasty artifact recovery in Hong Kong.

      The man kept beating her out on key proposals and she had no idea how he was doing it. It clearly wasn’t location based because each job was vastly different from the other. She’d had yet to find any other obvious connection, either.

      So how was it every time the House of Steele went up against Andrews Holdings they lost?

      The knock on her door pulled her attention from the drama on the street below. Her assistant, Molly, stood at the door, a thin tablet in hand. “You ready for our morning status?”

      “Can I ask a favor first?”

      “Does it involve delivering anything to your brother at home again? I’m still convinced I interrupted a rather delicate moment between him and his fiancée.”

      Kensington smiled at that. Molly had, in fact, interrupted Campbell and Abby in a moment in flagrante delicto. Of course, that’s what he got for attempting a morning quickie when there was work to be done. “Not at all. Would you mind getting those roses out of my sight?”

      Molly let out a long, low whistle. “These are gorgeous. When did they arrive? I’ve been here since eight-thirty and we haven’t had any deliveries.”

      “Bright and early this morning. Nothing like being served up a portion of crow over your first cup of coffee.”

      Her assistant set her electronics down and picked up a few of the stems. “These look like flirtation and romance far more than arrogant gloating. Who’s the new man?”

      A light zing of awareness skimmed her spine, but Kensington banished it. Just like she banished any of the nine million other delicious thoughts she’d had about Jack Andrews over the past six months. “Trust me. They scream gloating arrogance.”

      “Gloating arrogance in a sexy package.”

      “Perhaps.”

      “Why are the petals all wonky on this side?” Molly turned a few of the blooms over, her concern evident in the lines that crinkled her forehead.

      “They’ve already spent a few minutes in the trash.”

      Another low whistle left Molly’s lips before she tossed Kensington a broad smile. “Oh, my, my. I think I read this just right. There is a romance afoot.”

      “There’s no romance.”

      Molly waved a hand over her head as she walked out the door, the roses spilling from the crook of her arm. “Save your breath, oh, straitlaced one. Thou doth protest too much.”

      Kensington clamped her mouth shut, her assistant’s words hitting home with the force of a battering ram.

      It was long moments later when she finally took a seat at her desk, the morning’s drama fading so that she could concentrate on work.

      But damn it if the sweet, fresh scent of roses still lingered in the air.

      * * *

      Jack Andrews tossed some money to the driver and slid across the backseat of his cab. The impressive Upper East Side brownstone stood five stories above him as he walked toward the front stoop of the headquarters of the House of Steele.

      A small shiver of anticipation gripped him, the sensation something of a surprise after far too many years of minimal interest in anything.

      It was a calculated risk to come here. Just like the roses.

      Would she see it as a taunt? Or would she give him the time and hear him out?

      The crisp notes of early December whipped around him and Jack huddled deeper into his wool coat as he took the front stoop two steps at a time and hit the doorbell. He’d lived in Chicago for the better part of fifteen years and he still hadn’t adjusted to cold weather.

      A small buzz and the sound of the front door clicking gave him entrance. As he stepped into the warmth, he wasn’t surprised to see a large man hulking in the hallway, ready to greet him. Although the brownstone housed a business, no one walked in off the street. “Can I help you?”

      “I’m here to see Kensington Steele.”

      “Ms. Steele has no appointments on her agenda. I’m afraid you’re going to need to leave.”

      Jack took a moment to strip off his gloves. His gaze took in the large marble-floored entryway, the dark-paneled study he could see off the hall and the small camera that sat in the far corner of the elegant foyer, capturing visitors. The brownstone might have been built more than a hundred years earlier, but he had no doubt it was outfitted from top to bottom with the latest security and technological capabilities. “Please let her know Jack Andrews of Andrews Holdings is here.”

      “Ms. Steele isn’t taking visitors.”

      “She’ll see me.”

      The man stepped closer, his predatory gleam hard to miss. Jack knew his six-one wasn’t small by any means, but the muscles stalking him across the hall had to have him beat by at least three inches and a hundred pounds.

      The sound of heels clicking on marble pulled both their attention toward the long hallway that led to the back of the house and that shiver gripped him once more.

      Tighter, this time, like a fist wrapped around the base of his spine.

      “Mr. Andrews. I wasn’t aware you felt it necessary to make house calls all the way from Chicago to gloat. I would have thought two dozen long-stemmed roses were more than adequate to make your point.”

      Kensington waved off the large man in the foyer. “Thanks, Brandon. Although I wouldn’t say Mr. Andrews is a welcome visitor, I’m hardly going to kick him out.”

      The hulking man shot him one last dark look before taking a wary stance against