LITMIR.BIZ

       PROLOGUE

      WOULD SATAN WEAR eleven-micron wool?

      Izzy Dean could tell, even from this side of her boss’s expensive desk twelve storeys up her firm’s London high-rise, that Harry Mitchell’s flash charcoal suit would be as soft as a kitten to touch. Her fingers practically itched to stroke the expensive fabric.

      Maybe she could cop a feel as she leaned in to smack that smug grin off his designer-stubbled face.

      ‘Careful, Dean, you look like you want to deck me.’

      ‘Do I?’ Izzy feigned. Not that he’d believe innocence from her for one moment. He was way too used to sparring with her.

      Lord, as career-enders went, wouldn’t that be a spectacular way to go? Bunch up all those muscles she’d developed cleaning fast-food kitchens as a kid and—pow—set Mitchell right on his sanctimonious, perfectly sculpted arse right here in his own fishbowl office. She’d storm out amid a standing ovation from the entire downtrodden department.

      ‘Hello?’

      A large face loomed in her blurred vision and she snapped her focus back to steady blue eyes—oasis, according to the ‘what colour are his eyes?’ chart in her favourite battered old chick magazine. With flecks of cougar blue.

      Not that she’d looked him up, specifically …*cough*

      He even had eyelashes like thick, fringing palm trees to go with the whole oasis thing. Except there was nothing at all quenching about Harry Mitchell’s piercing stare. Instead, it smouldered like a volcanic spring that radiated heat towards her at the most inopportune moments.

      Like right now.

      ‘You’re angry.’

      ‘And that’s why you get the big bucks, Mitchell,’ she simmered, ‘that incomparable attention to detail.’

      ‘Funny that you should mention detail—’

      ‘There is nothing wrong with my report!’

      ‘Not technically,

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