Page 2

Something twisted in his gut. Not attraction. It couldn’t be that. Presumably annoyance mixed with…something he didn’t want to name. He forced his expression to remain neutral. No one, least of all the men guarding the hallways, needed to know that this woman could draw reactions from him.

“Happy to help,” he replied, his voice deliberately cool, disinterested. Better she think him cold. Better everyone think that.

Because the truth was perilous. She was the center of his plan, the linchpin. Every move he had made since bringing her here was designed to draw Ronan Keane out of hiding. Slowly, carefully, the bait had been set.

Two days. Three at most. Ronan would come for his daughter.

And when he did, Paulo’s trap would slam shut, delivering the vengeance he had chased for more than half his life.

Chapter 2

Madelaine forced her lips into a smile at the man who… terrified her? Confused her? Made her body tingle with unwelcome awareness?

All of the above.

But none of that mattered. Not right now. She pushed the thoughts aside and focused on the one thing that had always carried her through: survival. She needed a plan. She always needed a plan. She was grateful for Paulo Ruffino’s hospitality, but she knew better than to mistake it for permanence. Nothing in her life had ever been permanent.

Just a few more days, she told herself. Long enough to catch her breath, to figure out her next step, wherever that might lead. She had no idea where she would go. She only knew it wouldn’t be here.

Hence the paper and the small treasures she’d collected from the garden. A pencil would have been better. Pencil lines could be erased, mistakes wiped away. Ink left scars. Still, she gathered several sheets of crisp printer paper, clutching the pen more tightly than she needed to while juggling her handful of pebbles, leaves, and twigs, as if sheer determination could make it all come together. With her arms full, she turned and left his office.

Why did she feel the weight of his eyes following her? Was he watching her, judging her, or…? No! Paulo Ruffino was not attracted to her. He made that clear every time he opened his mouth. His comments dripped with irritation, not interest.

And yet, he had let her stay.

He’d been right about one thing—showing up on Catarina’s doorstep had been selfish. Her best friend from boarding school had a husband, a baby, a life worth protecting. Hiding there would have dragged Catarina into her nightmare. Paulo had offered his home instead, and desperation had forced her to accept.

She didn’t like relying on anyone, least of all a man like Paulo. She didn’t trust him. But she couldn’t deny the truth. She had nowhere else to go, no real money to stand on her own. Her father had seen to that. Ronan Keane controlled everything, even the details of her childhood.

She remembered the first time he’d shipped her off to boarding school, newly seven years old and terrified. He had given her a small account for “personal needs” and told her to budget carefully, as if she’d been born with the instincts of an accountant. She hadn’t known what budgeting was, not then. But she’d learned.

By the time he’d sent her to “finishing school,” a pathetic substitute for the education she wanted, she’d perfected the art of stretching every coin. Turning scraps into meals. Turning weekly allowances into months-long survival budgets. Ronan thought he had created dependence by keeping her starved of resources. Instead, he had taught her how to make do, how to adapt, how to survive.

That skill, at least, was hers. And it would have to be enough to get her through whatever came next.

So, now she needed to learn new skills. She had to find a way to be relevant, to prove, to herself most of all, that she could stand on her own.

But figuring out her next step required quiet. Calm. And the one thing that had always helped her focus was creating with her hands. It was her outlet, the only thing that gave her a sense of peace, of control.

So, she found a shady spot outside, ignoring the thick heat and humidity of the late Detroit summer, and began laying out her supplies. Pebbles, twigs, brittle leaves, a stray feather, anything the garden offered, she claimed. The air clung to her skin, her curls stuck to her forehead, but she refused to care. She focused entirely on her project.

Today’s challenge was hands. She’d tried to form them dozens of times, arranging sticks for fingers and petals for joints, but they always looked off. Too bony or too plump. Sometimes, both at once.

She sat at the beautiful iron outdoor table, holding out her own hand as a model, then bent over her paper, carefully placing her findings in position. A twig snapped the wrong way. A petal drooped. The outline looked mangled, more like a broken rake than a hand. She sighed, tried again. And again.

Other attempts turned cartoonish, with fat daisy-petal thumbs and awkward stone knuckles. Still, she pushed on.

Her father had spent years telling her she was useless, that she couldn’t survive without him. But every stubborn attempt, every awkward shape made from twigs and petals, was proof she refused to give up.

She could make herself better. Even if it meant covering the garden path with a hundred misshapen, sausage-fingered hands made out of leaves and sticks.

Chapter 3

“How long has she been out there?” Paulo asked, shoving his hands into the pockets of his charcoal slacks as he stared at the woman perched on the most uncomfortable iron chair in the garden. The decorator had called it “old world charm.” Paulo called it a medieval torture device. The thing was all sharp angles and holes that dug into the hips and back. Nobody had ever found it comfortable. Which, he supposed, was the point. It was supposed to be decorative, nothing more.

Across the space were chaise lounges with striped cushions, shaded by umbrellas his landscaping crew dutifully set out each morning. Normal people would choose the comfort. Not her. She chose the hard chair and table, then stayed there.

“About three hours,” Mick, his second in command, said. “She’s barely moved other than fiddling with the sticks and flowers. She didn’t even notice when the guards switched shifts.”