He didn't smile. Didn't nod. Just watched me with an intensity that made my skin flush beneath my dress. The memory of his lips against my jaw in that hallway burned fresh in my mind.
I forced myself to look away, focusing instead on my responsibilities. I circulated through the remaining guests, making mental notes of conversations to follow up on Monday.
"Ms. Quinn."
I turned to find Vincent Calabrese approaching again, a fresh champagne in hand. Apparently, one rejection hadn't been enough.
"Mr. Calabrese." I kept my voice pleasant but cool.
"Vincent, please." He stepped closer than necessary, invading my space for the second time tonight. "I wanted to apologize if I came on too strong earlier. I have a bad habit of being—direct when I see something I want."
"No apology necessary," I said, maintaining professional distance. "If you'll excuse me—"
"Perhaps you'd consider joining me for dinner next week? To discuss business opportunities, of course." The way he said "business" made it clear he had other things in mind.
Before I could formulate a polite refusal, a warm hand pressed against the small of my back.
"I'm afraid Ms. Quinn’s schedule is quite full," Cassian said, appearing beside me. His voice was pleasant, but his eyes were cold as they met Calabrese's. "Aren't you, Isla?"
"Very full," I confirmed, fighting the urge to lean into his touch.
"Pity," Calabrese said, raising his glass in mock salute. "The offer stands, should your schedule… open up."
After he walked away, Cassian's hand remained on my back, warm through the silk of my dress. "I told you to stay away from him," he said quietly.
"He approached me. Twice now." I kept my voice low. "I've been nothing but professional."
"Calabrese doesn't care about professional boundaries. Not with women, not in business." His thumb traced a small circle against my spine—the same deliberate touch from the hallway. "He's dangerous."
"And you're not?" The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Cassian's eyes darkened. "I'm exactly as dangerous as I need to be." His hand slid slightly lower on my back, proprietary in a way that should have offended me but instead sent heat pooling in my stomach. "Dance with me."
It wasn't a request.
"I don't think that's a good idea."
"I don't recall asking what you think." His mouth curved into that half-smile that had haunted my dreams for almost three years. "One dance, Isla. Consider it part of your job."
I should have refused. Should have made an excuse to check on the caterers or to greet late arrivals. Instead, I let him lead me to the dance floor as the orchestra began a slow waltz.
His hand settled on my waist, the other clasping mine. We began to move together, and my body remembered his—the way we fit, the rhythm we found so easily that night in Miami.
"You never answered my question," he said, voice low enough that only I could hear.
"Which one?"
"Do I know you from somewhere? Before you came to work for me." His eyes searched mine. "Before that hallway. Before today."
I met his eyes, weighing my options. The truth would change everything. A lie would only delay the inevitable.
"Maybe in another life," I said finally.
His fingers tightened slightly on my waist. "I don't believe in other lives. Just this one, and the choices we make in it." He pulled me closer, our bodies nearly touching. "What are you hiding, Isla Quinn?"
The music swelled around us, and his hand at my waist pulled me incrementally closer.
"Because I'm a patient man," he continued, his voice a low rumble I felt in my chest. "I like to gather all the facts before I make a move. Make sure I have the full picture." His thumb traced a deliberate circle against my back. "But my patience isn't infinite. And when I do move? There's no escaping it."
