"Your pupils are dilated." He takes another step closer. "Your breathing changes when I move near you. Your skin flushes here—" his finger hovers over but doesn't touch the hollow of my throat, "—when I hold your gaze too long."
I swallow hard, unable to deny the physical evidence he's cataloged with disturbing accuracy. "That's just…biology. It doesn't mean anything."
"It means your body knows what your mind is fighting." His voice drops lower, wrapping around me like dark velvet. "And I'm patient enough to wait for your mind to catch up."
"Why me?" The question bursts out before I can stop it. "You could have anyone. Models. Actresses. People who make sense in your world."
Something shifts in his expression, a softening around the eyes that transforms his face from intimidating to almost vulnerable. Almost.
"Because you're real," he says simply. "Because you built something from nothing but talent and determination. Because you look at me and see a man, not a bank account or a business opportunity." He pauses. "And because I just know you taste like sunlight when you bite your lip like that."
I hadn't realized I was biting my lip until he mentioned it. I release it immediately, feeling caught out, exposed.
"I'm still not interested," I insist, the words hollow even to my own ears. "You're…you're too much. Too intense. Too controlling."
"I know exactly what I am," he acknowledges without a hint of apology. "And I know exactly what you need."
"You don't know me," I counter, backing up until I hit the counter behind me. "We've met, what, four times?"
He closes the distance I created, not touching me but near enough that I can feel the heat radiating from him. "I know you work yourself to exhaustion because you're afraid of failing. I know you haven't taken a day off in months. I know you check your bank balance three times a week, always after midnight. I know you sleep with two pillows and prefer the right side of the bed."
I stare at him, blood draining from my face. "That's not knowing me. That's stalking me."
"Research," he corrects without a flicker of shame. "And I know something else, Clara. Something more important."
I shouldn't ask. I should tell him to leave, to never come back. Instead, I hear myself whisper, "What?"
"I know you want me as much as I want you." His gaze drops to my mouth. "Even if you're fighting it with everything you have."
The air between us thickens, charged with something that makes it hard to breathe. For one insane moment, I think he might kiss me. For an even more insane moment, I want him to.
Instead, he steps back, giving me space I don't actually want. "You're not interested," he says, echoing my earlier assertion. "That's fine. I'll change your mind."
He says it with such calm certainty that a shiver races down my spine. Not a threat. A promise.
"You're very confident," I manage.
"Always." He moves toward the door, then pauses with his hand on the knob. "One delivery a day, as agreed. Until Christmas. After that..." His smile is slow and devastating. "We'll see where your interest lies."
He slips out into the December night, leaving me clutching a mop like it's the only thing keeping me upright. Which, at this moment, it might be.
I'd told Alexander Devereux I wasn't interested.
My body, my racing heart, the heat pooling low in my belly—they're all screaming that I just told the biggest lie of my life.
Chapter
Four
ALEX
I slamthe door of my Aston Martin hard enough to draw a concerned glance from the parking attendant. The penthouse elevator opens with a soft chime that grates against my nerves like sandpaper. I haven't felt this unsettled since the Singapore deal collapsed three years ago, and that was over billions. This is about a woman who bakes bread for a living. A woman who just looked me in the eye and lied about not wanting me. A woman who said no.
Nobody says no to me. Not anymore. Not for years.
The penthouse is dark and silent when I enter, exactly as I left it—minimalist, perfect, and utterly devoid of warmth. I toss my keys on the marble counter with more force than necessary. They skid across the surface and fall to the floor with a clatter that echoes in the empty space.
"Fuck," I mutter, running a hand through my hair. I need a drink.
