"Perfect," she muttered.
I reached for the emergency phone, confirmed with security what I already suspected—a power surge. Maintenance was aware, and they estimated it would take 15 minutes to restore service. I hung up and turned to find Isla staring at the ceiling, her jaw tight.
"Claustrophobic?" I asked.
"No." She crossed her arms. "Just not thrilled about being trapped."
I studied her in the dim emergency lighting. She'd worn her hair up for dinner, exposing the elegant line of her neck. A few strands had escaped, curling against her skin. My fingers itched to brush them away, to feel if her skin was as soft as it looked.
"Tell me something, Ms. Quinn."
"What would you like to know, Mr. Barone?" Her voice was steady, but I caught the slight acceleration in her breathing.
"Why did you apply for this position? The truth this time."
Her eyes narrowed. "I told you. I needed work after my mother—"
"Your mother didn't die." I watched her reaction carefully. "There's no death certificate, no obituary. I checked."
Color drained from her face. "You investigated me?"
"I investigate everyone who comes into my life." I moved closer, not crowding her, but eliminating the careful distance she'd maintained. "I know when I'm being lied to."
The elevator seemed to shrink around us. Her scent grew stronger—or perhaps I was just more attuned to it now, searching for why it triggered something in me.
"My mother isn't dead," she admitted finally. "But she was sick. I took time off to care for her."
Another lie. I could taste it in the air between us.
"What else are you hiding, Isla?"
Her eyes flashed. "Everyone has secrets, Mr. Barone. Even you."
"Especially me." I placed my hand on the wall beside her head, not touching her but blocking her escape route. "The difference is, I'm the one who signs your paychecks."
"Is that a threat?"
"An observation."
She didn't shrink away. Instead, she lifted her chin, defiant. "I'm good at my job. That's all that should matter."
"You've been my assistant for less than a week. The jury's still out on how good you are."
"Then perhaps you should let me prove myself professionally instead of interrogating me in a stalled elevator."
I laughed, genuinely surprised by her backbone. Most people cowered when I applied pressure. Isla pushed back.
"Fair point." I didn't move away. "Though I find this setting rather… conducive to honest conversation."
"There's nothing honest about power imbalance," she countered.
"Power is never balanced, Ms. Quinn. It shifts, ebbs, flows." I leaned closer, close enough to see the gold flecks in her brown eyes. "Right now, I have it. But that doesn't mean you're powerless."
Her breath caught. "What does that mean?"
"It means you affect me more than you should."
The confession surprised us both. I hadn't meant to say it aloud, yet there it was, hanging in the air between us. Her eyes widened, lips parting slightly.
