Eleanor WitchBourne had been having a perfectly ordinary day, she'd been reviewing quarterly reports. Boring stuff. But it came with the territory of being groomed to eventually run the WitchBourne hospitality empire. Twenty-six years old, MBA from Cambridge, corner office in the Bristol headquarters with a view of the Avon that most people would kill for.
Perfectly ordinary.
Perfectly fine even though she knew she was marrying someone to help her family grow stronger.
Now, with a rare pocket of free time in her schedule, it was time to let loose a little. Eleanor was half out of her blouse—top buttons undone, silk parting to reveal the lace edge of her bra—when the door opened without a knock and a pervert walked into her office.
She didn't turn immediately. Assumed it was staff. Assumed the soft knock she'd missed in her focus, the murmured apology, the quick click of the door closing again.
But no apology came.
No click of retreat.
The door stayed open.
