This shouldn't be happening. She's not in some sort of eighties spy hijinx movie - there are no easily-outwitted comedy henchman with thick accents and tiny moustaches here. This danger is real and ever-present and there is no way Oliver can possibly think this will work.

Except it does.

She can't see the guard because the bulk of his body is between her and the door, pressing her into the wall, but the very masculine chuckle she hears sounds straight out the movie Hollywood would make of her life.

Oliver pulls back from her, his hand dropping her leg from where he has it hooked over his hip.

"Ah," he says in his playboy voice, "we were just looking for a little privacy, fellas."

Felicity presses her face further into his shoulder, because this is not happening. Oliver Queen did not just press her up against a wall, slide his hand down her body to the high cut slit in her dress and wrench her leg out and up over his hip so they were pressed, body-to-body against the wood paneling that hides the safe whose electronic lock she'd just hacked mere seconds before.

He hadn't kissed her, he obviously knew enough not to push her that far, but as he steps back her body feels suddenly cold without the warmth and bulk of him against her. It may have only lasted a second, but she knows that second replayed will become minutes, hours even, in her dreams.

As he turns, she makes a show of smoothing down her dress and hiding her face from the guards. They might think it embarrassment, shyness maybe, missing the truth that she doesn't want to be known as another of Oliver's women, no matter what her reputation is in the office.

"This is a private office, Mr Queen," another guard says in a warning tone. "You can't be in here."

"You couldn't give me just ten minutes," Oliver says, his tone sleazily suggestive.

"Not in here, Mr Queen," the first guard says, "but you could buy that time somewhere just down the hall. For the right price. Say

fifty?"

"A man after my own heart," Oliver sleazes, producing his wallet. "Here's fifty for you, and another fifty if you can make sure we're not disturbed."

The guard pockets the money, and leads them out, ignoring the scowl of his apparently much less bribable colleague.

Oliver tucks Felicity under his arm and walks them down the hall. She keeps her face turned into his neck, letting him lead her, but she does poke him sharply under his jacket when his hand gropes at her chest.

"Here you go, Mr Queen," the guard says and suddenly Felicity is in some sort of den/library, with leather sofa and bookshelves.

"This will do nicely," Oliver says as he closes the door. Felicity has enough presence of mind to let out a girly giggle just before the lock clicks into place, but the second they're out of ear shot she steps back, putting some distance between them for the sake of her own sanity.

"What was that?" She asks, trying as hard as she can to keep her voice steady.

"It worked," Oliver shrugs, "Dig?"

"I see you went with a classic," Diggle says over the earpieces they're both wearing. "Have to say man, I'm surprised it worked."

"You're not the only one," Felicity mutters darkly.

"We wait fifteen minutes," Oliver says, "then we make our way back to the party. No one will be surprised to see Oliver Queen come back after a lengthy absence with a blonde."

Felicity allows herself a moment to fantasise about emptying his trust fund in favour of the Starling City Donkey Sanctuary. One day she'll do it, but only after he has completely destroyed her reputation.

"You okay with that, Felicity?" She hears Diggle ask.

"Why wouldn't she be?" Oliver says, sounding honestly perplexed.

"I'm fine," she says, even though she's not. There was more than one paparazzi on the red carpet route in to this godforsaken party and she's sure their accommodating friend the guard will tip off at least one of the gossip sites for that extra $250 they all pay. It won't take much journalistic nous for someone to put two and two together. This will be watercooler gossip for at least a week, maybe even 10 days.

"I'm fine," she repeats, because maybe if she says it enough it will magically become true. Felicity Smoak, star of QCIT, is now Felicity Smoak, sleeping with the boss. Reputation is such a fickle thing, and she had no idea how much hers meant to her until it became a noose around her neck.

"We need to look the part," Oliver is saying when she tunes back in. "I can open a few buttons, take off my tie."

"Great," she says.

"Can you do something with your hair?" He asks, and she obediently turns to a mirror and pulls a few grips loose so curls tumble down.

Her reflection already has smeared lipstick, and with her hair falling out of the elegant up-do she looks exactly like someone who's just been ravished against a wall.

Shame that nothing is farther from the truth.

"What about lipstick?" Oliver says, stepping up behind her so she can see his reflection in the mirror too.

"You've already got some on your neck," she says, "from before."

"There should be more," he says, and suddenly anger she didn't even know she felt rages up in her and it's all she can do not to turn and slap him.

She curls her hands into fist and breathes deeply.

"No," she says, keeping her voice as level as she can, "no more. I've done everything you asked for and you get to fly high as the billionaire playboy while everyone in Starling City thinks I got my job on my knees. On my knees, Oliver. No more."

He's staring at her. She can't read the expression but it doesn't look the least bit apologetic.

"Felicity-" he says but she cuts him off.

"No," she says, "we convinced the guard already, we can go."

"It's only been five minutes," Oliver says.

"Well then the gossip sites can print something about you being quick on your feet rather than me being good on my knees," she snaps, then wrenches open the door and walks out.

Two steps into the corridor she feels the anger leak out of her as the instincts for deception and playacting Oliver and Diggle have trained in take over, and her gait shifts to tottering, like any one of half a dozen women here tonight in too high heels.

"You go, girl," Diggle says in her ear, and it's enough to make her smile.

She risks a glance over her shoulder and sees Oliver standing in the doorway, a few buttons of his shirt undone and his tie gone. Even from this distance she can see the smear of dark burgundy lipstick on his collar.

But this time she won't be the one cleaning it off.