"That's all?"
His lips quirked. "For now."
We reached a private dining room where two men stood in conversation. They turned as we entered, their eyes landing first on Cassian, then lingering on me.
"Vincent," Cassian greeted, his voice warming with false camaraderie. "Thank you for agreeing to this meeting."
The older man—silver-haired, tan, expensive watch glinting at his wrist—stepped forward. "Cassian. Always a pleasure." His gaze shifted to me. "And who is this lovely creature?"
"Isla Quinn, my executive assistant," Cassian said, his hand still at my back, fingers pressing slightly. Possessive. Warning.
"Charmed," Vincent said, taking my hand and bringing it to his lips.
I smiled politely while fighting the urge to wipe my hand on my dress. "Mr. Calabrese."
The younger man—Vincent's lawyer, presumably—watched the exchange with shrewd eyes. "David Mercer," he introduced himself with a nod.
We sat, Cassian positioning himself beside me rather than across. The proximity made it difficult to focus as servers poured wine and presented menus.
"Ms. Quinn will have the salmon," Cassian ordered for me without consultation. "I'll take the steak. Rare."
I stiffened, biting back the urge to correct him. I hated salmon. But correcting him now, in front of Calabrese, would undermine whatever power dynamic he was establishing. This wasn't about me or my dinner preferences. This was business, and I was a strategic asset in whatever game he was playing. I could push back later. In private.
The conversation flowed around business pleasantries until the appetizers arrived. Then Vincent leaned forward, voice lowering.
"Let's not waste time, Cassian. We both know why we're here."
Cassian sipped his wine, unruffled. "Your southern ports. I want them."
"They're not for sale."
"Everything has a price."
I took notes diligently, tracking the verbal chess match while trying to ignore the heat of Cassian's thigh, occasionally pressing against mine under the table. Each contact sent a jolt through me, unwanted memories surfacing.
The way he'd looked at me in that Miami bar. The heat in his eyes when I'd let my hair down. The growl in his voice when he'd whispered what he wanted to do to me.
"Isla."
I snapped back to the present. Cassian was watching me, one eyebrow raised.
"Mr. Mercer asked you a question."
"I apologize," I said smoothly. "Could you repeat that?"
The lawyer smiled thinly. "I asked if you've prepared the preliminary offer documents."
"They're being finalized," I lied, following Cassian's lead. "We'll have them to you by Monday."
Vincent studied me with newfound interest. "You trust your assistant with sensitive negotiations, Cassian? That's unlike you."
"Ms. Quinn has earned my confidence," Cassian replied, his hand dropping to my knee under the table. A warning. A claim.
I didn't move, didn't breathe. Not because I was afraid—but because if I moved, if I reacted at all, Calabrese would see the flush creeping up my neck, the way my pulse hammered visibly at my throat. His thumb traced a small circle on my skin through the fabric of my dress. Heat pooled low in my belly, unwanted and undeniable.
"How… interesting," Vincent murmured.
The rest of dinner passed in a blur of business talk and veiled threats. I played my part—competent, observant, forgettable. But Cassian's hand remained on my knee, his thumb occasionally stroking higher, sending unwelcome heat through my body.
