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He leaned in slightly, reached out with his left hand, gently grasped the wide shoulder strap that had slipped down my right shoulder, patiently adjusting it upward, smoothing the wrinkles with his fingertips.

His movements were elegant and focused, like correcting a priceless work of art. But when the back of his hand accidentally grazed the bare skin at my collarbone's edge, I couldn't help trembling slightly.

"Colette has vicious eyes." Marcelo looked down at me, his voice hoarse, thick with Italian inflection. "But this dress on a mannequin would just be expensive dead fabric. You gave it breath and soul, Ruby."

My heart nearly burst from my chest.

His hand still hadn't left my shoulder. Through the cool velvet, his palm's scorching heat penetrated instantly.

"Thank you," I said stiffly. "Please thank Colette for me."

"Of course." He laughed low, his chest vibrating beneath his shirt. "But perhaps there's a bigger contributor here. How do you plan to thank him? Just 'thank you' isn't very sincere."

My face must've been too red for even makeup to save.

God, what happened to keeping distance?

But the terrifying thing was, my legs felt rooted to the spot, unable to move an inch.

And he had no intention of letting me go.

"Look at me, Ms. Caldwell."

I was forced to lift my head, meeting his gaze up close. Those gray-green eyes held no false politeness, only naked, almost greedy admiration.

The air thickened to suffocation. His breath brushed my forehead, that hand on my shoulder, his thumb resting deliberately against the pulse point on my neck. The frantic rhythm there betrayed every bit of my wavering.

If he leaned forward just two more inches, his lips would touch my nose.

My gaze involuntarily dropped to his lips.

God, I remembered how they felt. Soft, cool, intensely invasive. When they parted, that tongue would force its way into my mouth.

My legs weakened.

Damn it, Ruby, stop thinking about it!

Marcelo seemed to catch my stare.

He laughed softly. Just when I thought something would happen, he suddenly stepped back.

"We should go." He turned away, picking up his watch from the coffee table and fastening it, as if those few seconds of incendiary tension had never happened. "Come on, Ruby. Let's go conquer those old fossils."

Outside Le Meurice, a black stretch Bentley waited. The driver respectfully opened the door, Marcelo gallantly placing his hand over the roof, gesturing for me to enter first.

The car glided into Paris's evening traffic, neon and Haussmann-style buildings streaming past the windows.

But inside the enclosed cabin, the atmosphere felt like a pressure cooker.

I gripped my black clutch with both hands, knuckles white, eyes fixed unblinkingly on the small in-car refrigerator, my entire back rigid as an iron board.

With each mile closer to our destination, the earlier scene faded slightly from my mind, replaced by mounting anxiety about the biggest test of my life approaching.

This could change everything.

"Ms. Caldwell, I suggest you learn how to breathe before we reach the Grand Palais." Marcelo sat beside me, long legs elegantly crossed, one hand resting casually on the window edge, the other scrolling through emails on his phone.

He asked without looking up. "If my assistant passes out from oxygen deprivation before we even get inside, tomorrow's fashion headlines will probably read 'Moretti Group Abuses New Hire.'"