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Madelaine.

Just the sight of her made his muscles loosen, his chest unclench, and his shoulders dropped a little. And then she smiled.

Except it wasn’t a normal smile. Oh no. That curve of her lips was all wrong. Too sweet. Too knowing. Too damn dangerous.

That’s when he saw what she held.

A plate. Of brownies.

“Would you like a brownie?” she asked, her tone honey-sweet. But underneath? A razor blade challenge.

Paulo froze. He remembered the brown sludge she’d been mixing earlier. He remembered the salt-bombs she’d tried to pass off as cookies. The charred pasta sauce. Other baking mishaps flashed through his mind. His stomach clenched as if preemptively preparing for the incoming disaster.

The brownies actually looked edible. Moist, cut into neat squares. They even smelled like chocolate. But Paulo wasn’t fooled. This was how men died. Not in gunfights, not in knife brawls. They died at the hands of women with big blue eyes and deceptively innocent smiles.

“Uh…they look…good,” he said cautiously, his voice strangled. Hell, couldn’t she just shoot him and get it over with? Eating her baking was like slow torture. “Death by Brownie” was not the legacy he wanted to leave.

“I don’t want to spoil my appetite,” he tried weakly, glancing at Rosa for rescue. The housekeeper stood behind the island, arms crossed, spoon in hand, glaring at him like the executioner she dreamed of being. And Paulo knew… he knew… that if he refused, he’d be choking down boiled chicken and limp broccoli until the end of his days.

“I mean, of course I do,” he amended quickly, snatching a brownie before Rosa could smite him with her spoon. He didn’t take a bite. Not yet.

If Rosa had made them, he’d already have devoured half the plate. But if Madelaine had baked them…?

Hell, he wasn’t ashamed to admit it, he was terrified.

“Aren’t you going to try it?” Madelaine batted her lashes, weaponizing those dark, curling lashes against him.

He wanted to drag her into his arms and spank her delectable backside. But one look at that mischievous gleam in her eyes told him he’d better tread carefully.

So, steeling himself, Paulo lifted the brownie and took a bite.

He braced for salt. For smoke. For spiders, maybe, because she looked devious enough to have baked in a tarantula.

Instead…chocolate. Warm. Rich. Perfect.

Relief hit him so hard he nearly groaned. “Oh, damn. These are good.”

He reached for a second, but Madelaine spun on her heel, whisking the plate away like a magician hiding a trick. “Rosa made them,” she said sweetly over her shoulder as she sashayed out of the kitchen. “I’ll give the rest to the guards.”

Paulo’s jaw dropped. He wanted to argue. He wanted more brownies. Hell, he wanted her. But his phone buzzed, and the name flashing on the screen dragged him back to reality.

“Damn it,” he muttered, heading for his office. He might have glanced back at Madelaine’s perfect curves as she disappeared down the hall. He might have. But no one could prove it.

Dropping into his chair, he spun around, answering the call with a growl. “What did you find out?”

As Paulo listened to the report, he reached automatically for a pen. His fingers closed on…nothing.

What the hell?

“Hold on a minute,” he muttered to the caller, opening the top drawer. Empty. No pens. Instead, his stapler sat there like it owned the place. His stapler didn’t belong in this drawer.

He shoved it aside, rifled through the drawer, then growled under his breath. Irritation spiked. No one touched his desk. Ever. He slammed the drawer shut and pulled open the next one. Finally! Finally, he found a pen. He scrawled notes onto a pad, his writing sharper and darker than usual, as though his frustration bled into the ink.

He jotted down shipment details, the sluggish pace of a captain he trusted for years, possible inefficiencies in the crew. His brain catalogued everything, but his gut…his gut was off. Distracted.

When the call ended, Paulo turned to his computer to send a message to his assistant. Mouse in hand, he slid it across the desk. Nothing. The monitor stayed black.

He moved it again. Nothing.