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Paulo rubbed the back of his neck, watching her bend over the paper. She delicately shifted the flowers with her pinky finger, then used the pen to….do something. He couldn’t see the details from this angle. The pen seemed to glide, her movements purposeful, deliberate. Not idle scribbling. She had a pile of discarded sheets at her side, weighted down with a rock she’d probably dug out of the flowerbed.

He’d lived in this house for five years and had never once sat on that patio, except to complain about the damn chairs. The patio had always been background noise, a square of stone his staff maintained without his input. Yet now, with her sitting there, he found himself noticing things he never had before. The lines of the stonework. The way the trees arched to make a pocket of shade. Even the bursts of color from the flower beds edging the garden.

He frowned, unsettled. What business did he have paying attention to flowers and symmetry? He dealt in numbers, power, and blood. Not sunlight on leaves.

And still, he noticed. Because she was out there. Because he couldn’t help but notice her.

He scowled, shoving the thought away. What the hell was she doing to him?

“Do you need us to secure her for the night?” Mick asked.

Paulo’s head snapped around. “Secure her?” His voice came out sharper than he intended.

Mick shrugged, looking confused. “So she doesn’t sneak away during the night?”

The growl built in Paulo’s chest before he could stop it. “She’s not going anywhere. She’s hiding from her father.”

Mick’s head tilted slightly, confusion in his dark eyes. “Yeah, but what’s that about? From what I was able to gather from my sources in Europe, Ronan Keane had essentially ignored his daughter’s absence for the past several years. What’s happened to make him suddenly want her back so badly?”

Paulo exhaled slowly, the sound echoing in the quiet office. “I don’t have all the details yet, but my sources tell me Leonid Krylov is looking for someone to produce an heir.”

“That old geezer?” Mick blurted, his face twisting in disgust. “He must be…a hundred and fifty by now?”

A humorless smile tugged at Paulo’s mouth. “Closer to eighty-three. Spry, some people might say.”

“Why would he decide to marry now?”

“I don’t know,” Paulo admitted, his tone turning grim. The idea of that man touching Madelaine made his stomach turn. Krylov was old enough to be Madelaine’s grandfather, and yet he wanted her for one reason only. The image of the withered old man touching her, slid into Paulo’s mind before he could stop it. The thought was vile, sickening. His jaw clenched as revulsion rippled through him, every muscle tightening as if he could physically block the possibility.

His fingers curled into fists in his pockets, the protective instinct sharp and unwelcome. He didn’t want to feel this way, not about her. She was bait, nothing more than the key to drawing Ronan Keane into the open.

Still, he shoved down the guilt that whispered at the edges of his plan. It had to be done. After so many years, Paulo was finally going to get his revenge.

“I still don’t understand why you’re protecting the daughter of the man who killed your father,” Mick said. Then, with a shrug, “But I’ve learned over the years working under your command that you’ve always got something planned.” A grin spread across his face. “And it’s going to be awesome.”

Paulo didn’t bother to explain. His plans weren’t open for debate. He valued Mick’s loyalty and technical skills, but the man wasn’t like Tony, Sal’s second in command in Chicago. Tony had an instinct for people, for motives, for the undercurrents others missed. Mick had brawn and loyalty, and wicked technical skills and, in Paulo’s world, that counted for plenty. But subtlety? Not so much.

Turning back to his desk, he tried to refocus. He had two factories about to open in Laos, timed to step in as several pharmaceutical patents expired. A lucrative new venture. And if it happened to cut into the profits of a man running illegal drug labs, so much the better. Business and vengeance often walked hand in hand.

The back door creaked open. Paulo looked up in time to see Madelaine slip inside. She didn’t notice him watching. Her steps were quiet, cautious, as if she didn’t belong here. Instead of taking the grand staircase in the front hall, she headed straight for the narrow servants’ stairs tucked behind the kitchen.

His eyes narrowed. He’d noticed over the past couple of days that she acted as if she was afraid to take up space. Why?

For a moment, that same, unwanted urge rose in his chest, sharp and protective. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like watching her slink around his house as though she had no right to be there.

She wasn’t his concern. She wasn’t his responsibility beyond the role she played in his plan. She was bait, nothing more. A tool to drag her father into the open.

So, why did the word bait taste like bitter ashes in his mouth?

He turned away with a scowl, reminding himself she wasn’t here for his comfort or companionship. She was here because he had a score to settle. He would keep her safe, yes. But for his purpose. Not hers.

His fingers twitched on the desk, the idea sliding in unbidden. Maybe he could…?

“No, hell no,” he muttered under his breath, cutting the thought off before it could take root. He had work to do. Investments to oversee. Meetings to attend. Plans that mattered far more than a woman who wouldn’t be in his house for much longer.

Plans that would end with Ronan Keane’s downfall.

So, why was he turning right toward the kitchen instead of left toward the waiting SUV? He needed to get to his downtown office. He had meetings stacked back-to-back. Deadlines. Calls. Real work.