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Instead, he found himself walking into the kitchen. “Ms. Winters, could you send some tea up to Madelaine’s room?”

His housekeeper, Rosa, looked up from the pot she was stirring, her face softening into a knowing smile that he’d noticed ever since Madelaine had arrived. It grated on him more than he was willing to admit. “Of course, Paulo. I’ll bring a plate of cookies too. She didn’t eat much at lunch.”

He grunted, managed a nod, then stalked out before Rosa could add anything else. Cookies. Perfect. Just what he needed. His damn housekeeper wanted Madelaine to think he was some sort of lovesick fool. He muttered a curse under his breath, switching languages halfway through. He shouldn’t care if his house guest was eating or not. Madelaine was fine. Perfectly fine.

So, why did she glide along the edges of the hallway like a shadow? Why did he notice how she tried not to be seen?

He spun on his heel and marched toward the side door, furious at himself. If she wanted to starve, that was her choice. She could waste away for all he cared.

“Afternoon, Boss,” Andy, his driver and one of the bodyguards that constantly surrounded him, greeted as Paulo ducked into the back of the Land Rover.

“Andy,” he replied curtly, ignoring the weight in his chest.

“Office, sir?”

“Yes,” Paulo snapped. He forced his mind onto business, off the sway of Madelaine’s enticing hips and the way his hands itched to anchor those hips against his own. Absolutely not. She was Ronan Keane’s daughter. She was not here for him. No touching. No sex. No friendship.

But then the words slipped out before he could stop them. “But first, we need to stop by that chocolate shop on Third.”

The silence in the SUV was deafening. In the rearview mirror, Andy’s brows shot up. The bodyguard in the passenger seat glanced back, startled.

Paulo’s jaw locked. “What? Don’t look at me like that.”

Neither guard nor driver dared to respond. They wouldn’t. They knew better.

Still, Paulo caught Andy’s smirk flicker in the mirror before the driver turned his eyes back to the road.

Paulo cursed again, this time in Italian. He didn’t buy chocolates. He didn’t send up cookies and tea. He controlled Detroit with an iron fist. He made men rich, kept his people alive, and planned the downfall of his enemies.

So, why the hell was he thinking about a woman who sat in his garden arranging twigs and leaves like they were some sort of mysterious treasure?

“The police chief called earlier, boss,” Andy mentioned, turning right and merging onto the highway. “He wanted a meeting with you. Said he needs help with something.”

Paulo grunted. Of course, he wanted a meeting. Detroit’s chief of police always wanted something. This time, several of his sergeants had been caught in a prostitution sting. The chief wanted a favor, wanted his boys pulled out of the fire.

For half a second, Paulo considered letting the bastards rot. They deserved it. Using their badges to take advantage of women? He’d seen worse, but not by much.

Then he pictured the inevitable slap on the wrist, the light sentence that would follow. And that, he decided, wasn’t justice. Not to the women. Not to the handful of honest cops who worked hard to keep their communities safe.

He sighed. “Tell Josie to set up a meeting with him.”

Five minutes later, Andy slowed outside a new chocolatier’s shop. Paulo scowled at the tidy little storefront. Of all the places he could be right now, he was standing outside a sugar palace. Business waited. Enemies waited. But here he was, buying chocolates like an infatuated fool.

Inside, three customers lingered over the displays, debating which chocolate truffles looked prettiest, as if it mattered. Paulo ignored them and went straight to the counter. The kid behind it looked bored until his eyes landed on Paulo. Something in his posture shifted. People always sensed who and what he was, even if they didn’t know his name.

“How can I help you, sir?” the kid asked quickly.

“I need a big box of chocolates delivered to this address.” Paulo snagged a napkin and scribbled down his address in bold, slashing strokes.

The clerk blinked, taking the paper with a semi-confident nod. “What kinds of chocolates?”

Paulo stared at him, jaw tightening. “The kind made out of chocolate,” he growled.

The kid swallowed hard.

Paulo scowled at the clerk. It was one thing to show up in a chocolate shop like some pathetic fool, but it was something else entirely to waste time picking out bonbons. He wasn’t here to pamper anyone. He was here to make sure his so-called bait ate something. That was all.

It wasn’t personal.