By the time dessert arrived, I was a mess of contradictions—angry at his presumption, terrified of my response to it, and worst of all, remembering exactly why I'd gone to his hotel room three years ago.
Because Cassian Barone was magnetic. Dangerous. Irresistible.
And I was in far deeper trouble than I'd realized.
CHAPTER 3
Cassian
The Carlton's private dining room had served its purpose. Vincent Calabrese left with the impression I wanted—that I was interested but not desperate, powerful but reasonable. The shipping ports would be mine within the month, whether Vincent realized it yet or not.
But business wasn't what occupied my thoughts as we left the restaurant.
"You did well in there," I told Isla as we stepped into the cool night air. "Vincent doesn't usually respond to new faces."
"I didn't say much." She kept her eyes forward, her profile illuminated by the streetlights.
"You didn't need to."
The valet brought my Bentley around. I opened the passenger door for her, noting how she hesitated before sliding in, careful not tobrush against me. The caution was telling. Most women leaned in, manufactured reasons to touch. Isla did the opposite.
I circled to the driver's side, giving myself a moment to analyze what about her had me so… distracted. She was beautiful, yes. But I'd had beautiful women before. This was something else. Something unsettling.
"Where are we going?" she asked as I pulled into traffic.
"Back to the office. There are documents I need to review before tomorrow." I glanced at her. "Unless you have other plans?"
"At eleven thirty at night?" A hint of sarcasm colored her voice.
I smiled. "You'd be surprised what happens in this city after midnight."
"I have a fairly good idea." Her tone was dry, almost knowing.
I caught the flash of something in her eyes—a confidence that hadn't been present during her interview. This was the real Isla Quinn, I suspected. Not the deferential assistant, but a woman with spine and wit.
Interesting.
The office building was nearly empty when we arrived, just security and the night cleaning crew. We rode the elevator in silence, her scent filling the enclosed space—something subtle, floral with notes of vanilla. It stirred something in my memory, a phantom sensation I couldn't place.
"Your perfume," I said abruptly. "What is it?"
She stiffened. "I don't wear perfume."
"Everyone wears something."
"Just soap and lotion." She shifted away slightly. "Nothing special."
I leaned closer, inhaling near her neck. "I disagree."
Her breath caught—sharp, audible in the elevator's silence. She went perfectly still, not pulling away but frozen like prey under apredator's gaze. I felt her pulse jump beneath the delicate skin of her throat, saw the flush creeping up from her collarbone.
There. That reaction. Not fear. Something else entirely.
"Mr. Barone—" Her voice came out rougher than intended.
"Citrus," I murmured, close enough that my breath stirred the fine hairs at her nape. "And vanilla. Subtle. But distinctive."
The elevator jerked suddenly, lights flickering. Isla grabbed the handrail as we came to an abrupt stop between floors.
