I close two browser tabs and start to open the financials for the Andalusian branch when something clicks in my head. The files.
I’d told one of the guards to leave it on the deskinthe back room—the ones on the Granada deal. They’re annotated with changes I need to cross-check against the notes my VP decided to send.
I tap my fingers on the edge of the table in a steady rhythm. This isn’t as hard as I’m making it out to be. I’ve spent twenty years avoiding women and their advances; it shouldn’t be difficult to ignore this one as well.
Pushing the table to side, I make my way toward the door that separates the little room in the back from the rest of the jet. My knuckles graze the door, knocking softly.
This is agitating; I’ve never had to wait on someone to tell me what to do. I knock two more times, and when I don’t hear a response, I open the door and step in. Leaving the door ajar, I avoid looking at the bed and zero in on the desk. The file I came in here for lies on top of the desk, some papers peeking out. A creak echoes softly within the small room and I can’t help myself. My gaze settles on her laying on the bed. She’s sleeping on top of the blanket holding a pillow between her arms, her blonde hair spread out on the pillow like sun’s rays.
If I didn’t know that she’s mouthy brat, I’d take her for an innocent young woman. I’m frozen in place, my eyes roaming freely over her soft features. Her breathing maintains the same exact rhythm: in softly for a couple of breaths and then, as if she’s struggling for air, she takes a lungful of air in.
She shifts slightly, and that’s my cue to leave. This is beyond inappropriate. She’s not here for me to watch her like a creep. She’s here because I made a deal with her egoistical brother.
Silently closing the door behind me, I make my way back to my seat. I have business to attend to.
Banishing whatever last thought I had of my little nixie, I turn back to urgent business emails. I didn’t build an empire to neglect it for some twenty-one-year-old girl.
8
MARA
The jolt of the landing gear wakes me—soft at first, then sharper when the wheels hit the tarmac with a low, grating screech. My eyes peel open.
The plane is dimly lit, a soft glow lining the small room. I must’ve fallen asleep somewhere over the Atlantic.
“Up.” His voice is low. Unforgiving.
I blink blearily, and there he is standing in front of me, already back in control. Jacket off, sleeves rolled. Every inch of him looks like power dressed in pressed white cotton.
“I was sleeping,” I mumble, stretching once, slow and lazy on purpose.
“We’ve landed.” He holds out something: his jacket. Black. Expensive. Still warm. “Put this on.”
I blink at it, then at him. “No, thanks. I’m not cold.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t lower his hand. “It’s not about that.”
“Well, I don’t want it.”
His jaw tics once, twice. Then he steps in, too close. One of his hands grabs my chin—not roughly, but firmly. Like he’s handling something delicate that could also bite.
His grip lifts my face so I have no choice but to look at him. His green eyes, darker than before, are ringed with something unreadable. Exhaustion maybe. Restraint, definitely.
“Put the fucking thing on.”
My breath hitches. The edge of his voice slices clean through my next comeback. The fight rises up in my throat and burns behind my tongue, but I swallow it. Barely.
I take the jacket from his hand and shove my arms into it. It swallows me instantly. Warm. Heavy. Smells like him: cologne and spice and something faintly smoky. I hate how safe it feels.
His gaze holds mine for a beat longer than necessary. Then he turns and walks ahead of me, not waiting. Of course.
I pull the jacket tighter anyway.
Outside, it’s colder than expected. The sky’s a sick shade of gray, clouds low and angry. There’s a storm coming.
I follow him down the steps, careful on the wet stairs. The private strip is empty, save for a few suit-clad men and a long white car waiting like something from an old mafia movie.
One of the men—tattoos, massive, wearing black-on-black—greets Nicolo with a handshake and a nod. Their voices murmur low in Italian. Nicolo’s voice is rougher in his native tongue, each syllable clipped and final. I can’t understand it, but I don’t care.
