Wild Honey

Chapter Two

Honey had twenty-three floors to get him to listen to her.

Color rode the harsh jut of Oliver's cheekbones. With his to-die-for, clean-shaven jawline and a set of cheekbones a Russian model would murder for, he could have been considered hot, in the very traditional sense. Beneath the dark slash of his defined eyebrows, his true-blue eyes looked even more striking in contrast to his summer-tanned skin.

He must have gotten that tooling around the family game farm or messing about at the "cottage" in Plett, or Dullstroom, or wherever the northern suburbs aristocracy hung out now.

"Could I have that back please?" His accent rang pure Pampered Prince Preparatory School, seasoned with Gods-in-Training Boarding School for Senior Boys and topped with a hint of University of World Domination.

Honey dropped the card into his waiting hand. She couldn't let a second opportunity pass her by. "The building manager came to see me today."

Gaze fixed on the numbers above the door, Oliver made a noncommittal noise.

"It seems some of my fellow tenants have complained about me." Not by a flicker did he give any indication he knew what she was talking about. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you, Oliver?"

"We both know I do." He snapped his gaze down and met hers squarely. "As we are both aware that I don't want to share a floor with your business."

Wow! Talk about flailing someone with ruthless honesty. Honey took a moment to get it together. Aggression provoked aggression and she needed to keep this productive. "I understand you have some concerns, and admittedly we got off to a bad start. But—"

"We're not moving." Frowning, he leaned forward and pressed the P3 button again.

"We must be." Honey looked up at the numbers. Twenty-three, their floor was still lit. "It must be the storm. Messing with the electronics."

Oliver hit the open door button. The lift dinged and the doors opened.

Honey almost chickened out and hopped out the lift, but her business meant everything to her. Also, it was late, the building abandoned, and she'd much rather walk to her car with him. Although he might toss her at an attacker and make his escape rather than come to her rescue.

She pressed P3, and the doors slid closed. "As I was saying, you and I got off to a bad start."

He huffed and glanced at her. "You don't belong here."

His words raked through Honey and took her breath away. What had made her think she could reason with this man?

With a soft whoosh the lift moved. Twenty-one, twenty, nineteen...

The lift jolted to a stop.

"What the hell." Oliver hit P3.

Nothing.

He pressed it again. And again. And. Again.

"I'm fairly sure it got where you wanted to go the first time." She should never have climbed into the lift with him, never had made the mistake of trying to speak to him.

Oliver glared at her. "Then why aren't we moving?"

"My best guess"—she ignored the awful sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach—"is that we're stuck."

"We are not stuck." Oliver jabbed the P3 button like his life depended on it. "I don't have time to be stuck in a bloody lift."

"You should send someone a strongly worded memo." The way he harassed that button, it wouldn't ever work again. "And also, you might want to stop that."

"Stop what?" He glared at her.

"Pushing the button through the wall."

His fingernail whitened beneath the pressure he exerted on the button. "At least, I'm doing something. Not just standing there."

"That?" Honey pointed at his finger. "That's what you're doing?"

"Yes." He flushed.

"I'm sure that's doing all sorts of good." She had the satisfaction of seeing his flush deepen. "I'm sure we'll get moving again in a minute or two."

As if it heard her, the lift shuddered and plunged them into pitch dark.

Honey grabbed the rush of panic through her veins and breathed. In and out. In and out.

In the absolute silence, Oliver's breathing rasped harshly.

She breathed in and out again and counted in her head. When she got to four, the muted lights of an emergency backup kicked in and bathed the lift in hazy blue light.

Oliver didn't look so good. He was breathing hard and sweat dotted his brow and top lip. Just her luck. "You aren't claustrophobic are you, Oliver?"

"No." He clenched his jaw so tightly a muscle jumped in his cheek. "Not. At. All." He gathered his fallen briefcase and slid his laptop back inside. "I don't like confined spaces."

"Ah." Honey handed him a business card case and a Mont Blanc pen that had escaped from the briefcase. "I'm sure we'll get moving again any minute."

Her own tote had slid halfway across the floor and disgorged its contents at their feet. But with Oliver getting sweatier by the second she had bigger things to worry about than the box of tampons resting beside his left foot. "All you have to do is breath," she said.

He glared at her. "I don't need any help."

"Okay." Honey gathered up the tampons, her leather-bound journal, and tarot cards and tucked them back in the tote.

Oliver pressed his back against the lift wall. Closing his eyes, he dropped his head against the wall and clenched and unclenched his fists. His lips moved as if he were reciting something, or counting. He was so tense she could strike him like a tuning fork and he'd vibrate.

Honey pressed P3. It lit up, giving her a split second of hope, but the lift didn't move.

Oliver thunked his head against the wall.

Whatever he was doing, it wasn't working, and she didn't fancy being stuck in a stationary lift with a six-foot-three muscle-bound bundle of freaked-out testosterone. Honey pressed every floor's button.

Donkwent Oliver's head against the wall.

Intervention time. Her safety might depend on it.

"Oliver." She stood in front of him. "Oliver?"

Finally, he opened his eyes and glowered at her.

Better than a panic attack. "Listen to me." She used her shavasanavoice. "We're going to do some breathing, okay?"

He squeezed his eyes shut again.

"Breathing in," she said. "One, two, three, four." She clicked her fingers. "Hold." She expelled her breath. "And breathing out. One, two, three, four."

Fists clenching spasmodically, and breath rasping, he kept his eyes closed.

Honey repeated herself. And again.

This time, his wide chest expanded to a four count, held, and then contracted.

Again, they breathed in and out together, her voice and the draw and release of their breath the only sound in the lift car. Outside the lift well, the low grumble of thunder announced the ongoing storm.

The box Oliver had been carrying had fallen with everything else. Four miniature bottles of alcohol littered the floor at her feet. At least he'd come prepared for a panic attack.