"Someone more… pliable."
A flash of anger crossed her face before she masked it. "I'm sorry to disappoint."
"I didn't say I was disappointed." I set my glass down. "Quite the opposite."
She clutched the file to her chest like armor. "Will there be anything else tonight?"
"Just one thing." I closed the distance between us, moving slowly to give her time to retreat. She didn't. "The elevator. That wasn't just me."
Her throat worked as she swallowed. "I don't know what you mean."
"Yes, you do." I touched her chin, tilting her face up. "You felt it too."
For a moment, her defenses faltered. I saw naked want in her eyes, the same heat that had nearly consumed us both.
"It doesn't matter what I felt," she said softly. "Some lines shouldn't be crossed."
"All lines can be crossed, Isla. It's just a question of who's willing to pay the price."
She stepped back, breaking the connection. "Goodnight, Mr. Barone."
I let her go, watching as she gathered her coat and bag. At the door, she paused.
"For what it's worth," she said without turning, "you're not what I expected either."
Then she was gone, the click of the door punctuating her exit.
I returned to the window, scotch in hand, watching until I saw her emerge from the building below. She hailed a cab rather than walking to the subway—smart, given the hour. I waited until the taillights disappeared into traffic before pulling out my phone.
"Marco. I need surveillance on Isla Quinn. Home, movements, contacts. Everything." I paused. "And find out if she has family in Brooklyn. Someone she might be caring for."
A beat of silence on the other end. "Boss, that's—significant resources for an assistant. Background check is one thing, but full surveillance?" He chose his words carefully. "Is there a security concern I should know about?"
"Call it instinct."
"Your instincts are usually about threats or opportunities." Another pause. "Which is she?"
"I haven't decided yet." The truth. "Just do it, Marco. Quietly."
"Understood. I'll have someone on her by morning." He hesitated. "Cassian—be careful. Whatever this is."
I ended the call without responding. Marco's concern was noted. And ignored.
I drained my scotch, the burn in my throat nothing compared to the fire she'd ignited. Something wasn't adding up with Isla Quinn. The gap in her employment history. The lies about her mother. The way she affected me.
And that scent—vanilla, flowers, something else I couldn't name but recognized on some primal level. It haunted me, teasing at memories just beyond my grasp.
I'd uncover her secrets. All of them. And when I did, I'd decide whether to keep her close… or eliminate the distraction she represented.
Either way, the power remained mine. For now.
Three hours later, I stood at the window of my penthouse, a fresh scotch in hand that I hadn't touched. Sleep was impossible. My mind kept circling back to her—the way she'd looked at me in that elevator, the scent of vanilla that had filled the confined space.
Vanilla and citrus.
I closed my eyes, letting the memory surface fully this time.
A hotel bar in Miami. Three years ago. The petroleum conference I'd attended more out of obligation than interest. I'd been sitting alone, nursing a drink, when a woman had slid onto the barstool beside me.
