“You following me now?” I asked, lifting my glass but not drinking.
“I called your office,” he said casually. “Spoke to your secretary.”
I nearly choked on air.
“Oh, did you?”
“Sweet girl. Very helpful.”
I made a mental note to fire her. Not really. But close.
“What do you want, Tariq?”
He paused—actually paused—like that question was loaded.
My pulse quickened because I read him instantly. The flex in his jaw. The way his gaze dipped to my mouth. The darkening in his eyes.
He wanted me. Still.
“I reviewed the scene again,” he said instead. “The accelerant pattern doesn’t match an electrical fault. Someone poured it along the west stairwell. Deliberate trail. Clean exit point.”
My fingers tightened around my glass.
“So it was arson.”
“Yes.”
The word hung heavy.
“And,” he continued, “I know who owns that house.”
There it was.
We shared a look. I started strolling through the gallery again, waiting for him to follow.
“You shouldn’t be working that close to men like him,” he said low.
I laughed softly. “You don’t get to police my clients.”
“I get to point out danger when I see it.”
I stopped and stepped closer. “I’m not in danger.”
His jaw flexed again.
“That dangerous man,” I said lightly, “once tried to set me up with his son.”
Tariq went still.
“What?”
“I mean, I considered it,” I added, shrugging. “He’s fine. Looks like he could handle me. Intense. Focused. Strong. Maybeyourpussy, as you called it, would have enjoyed?—”
I didn’t get to finish.
His hand wrapped around my wrist—not rough, but decisive.
“Tariq—”
