The contact was electric. But not unexpected—not anymore.
Her skin was impossibly soft, warm beneath my fingertips. The same softness I remembered from Miami. A tantalizing scent and warmth rose off her. The memory crashed over me with perfect clarity—moonlight on pale skin, the curve of her neck beneath my lips, my hands tracing this exact path down her spine three years ago.
I knew that body. Had worshipped it in a hotel room overlooking the ocean.
Did she remember? Did she know I was the same man who'd touched her like this before? Who'd made her come undone in silk sheets while she'd called me by a name that wasn't mine?
Or was she playing me, pretending we were strangers while knowing exactly who I was?
She glanced back at me over her shoulder, our eyes locking. In that moment, the air between us thickened, charged with something dangerous and familiar. Her pupils dilated, lips parting slightly—the same expression she'd worn in that Miami hotel room when I'd unzipped her dress.
Recognition sparked in my chest—I'd seen that look before. On her face. In my bed.
But did she recognize me?
Her breath hitched, and I searched her eyes for any sign she knew. Any flicker of memory. Any acknowledgment of what we'd been to each other.
Nothing. Just desire and confusion.
Either she was an exceptional liar, or she genuinely didn't remember the man who'd touched her this way before.
With effort, I forced myself to step away, jaw tight. The test was inconclusive. I needed more time. More evidence.
"You're all set," I muttered, voice hoarse.
"Thank you," she whispered, turning to face me.
We stood too close, the space between us electric with possibility. I could take her right here, bend her over my desk, and satisfy the craving that had been building since she walked into my office. From the way her breath quickened, she might even welcome it.
But something held me back. Not conscience—I'd never been troubled by that. Not propriety—I took what I wanted, when I wantedit. No, it was the nagging sense that I was missing something crucial. That she was a puzzle with pieces deliberately hidden from me.
"You should go," I said, stepping back. "You'll be late."
Relief and disappointment warred on her face. She nodded, gathering her things with hands that trembled slightly.
"Goodnight, Mr. Barone."
"Cassian," I corrected again, the name sounding different in the charged air between us.
She paused at the door. "Goodnight, Cassian."
After she left, I returned to my desk, my hands still remembering the feel of her skin. The same skin I'd touched three years ago under very different circumstances.
I picked up my phone. "Marco. The investigation into Isla Quinn. I need it accelerated."
"Already on it, boss. I should have a full report by tomorrow."
"Make it tonight." I stared at the door she'd disappeared through. "I want to know everywhere she's been, everyone she's talked to, every dollar she's spent for the last three years. And Marco? Dig into her personal life. Find out if there's anyone else in the picture. A boyfriend. A husband. A child."
The last word came out sharper than I intended.
"You think she's hiding a family?"
"I think she's hiding something." My jaw clenched. "And I'm done waiting to find out what."
My phone rang at eleven PM, just as I was reviewing contracts in my home office. Marco.
"Tell me you found something."
