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A damn good shot. One for the highlight reel.

Satisfied, Paulo handed his club to the caddie and walked toward the cart.

“That was really pretty!” Madelaine gasped, bouncing in the seat, clapping.

Pretty. She’d called his shot pretty.

And somehow, he wasn’t even annoyed. He’d take it. Hell, he wanted to frame the word.

By the ninth hole, he’d perfected a system. Focus on the swing. Land the shot. Then look at her. And every time he did, she was there beaming, clapping, bouncing like the world’s cutest cheerleader.

It was going to kill him. Desire was a devil, he thought grimly. A grinning, leg-baring devil.

“She’s delightful,” Andrei murmured as he lined up his putt.

Paulo’s head snapped around. “Keep your eyes on the ball,” he ordered.

The bastard chuckled. And then, just to be irritating, made a flawless shot. The ball rolled neatly into the hole with a tidy clunk.

Andrei straightened, smug as sin. “And that’s the game.” He bent, retrieved his ball, then tossed it casually in the air before catching it again. “We’ll talk more about the factory next time. Invite me when you’re ready.”

Andrei’s gaze slid back to Madelaine. Paulo’s teeth clenched. She’d clapped for him. For him alone. And that was exactly how it was going to stay.

Andrei walked off, signaling to his guards that he was finished for the day.

Paulo couldn’t help the small surge of relief. Nine holes alone with Madelaine sounded infinitely better than nine more spent with Andrei’s smug grin. But when he glanced toward the cart, his relief soured.

She was bored.

She tried to hide it, pasting on a quick smile when she realized he was watching her, but Paulo wasn’t fooled. Sitting in a cart while two men hit balls around was probably as tedious as it could get.

“Let’s call it a day,” he said to his guards, then crossed to his caddie. Slipping a wad of bills into the kid’s hand, he murmured, “Take my clubs to the driving range. I’ll show her how to hit a few after lunch.”

The caddie’s eyes widened eagerly. “Yes, sir!” He stuffed the money into his pocket, slung the heavy golf bag over his shoulder, then jogged off like he’d just been handed tuition money, which might actually be the case.

“Where’s he taking your clubs?” Madelaine asked, appearing at his side.

“We’re grabbing lunch. Then, I’ll show you how to swing so you don’t spend the next game yawning in the cart.”

“I wasn’t bored,” she insisted, chin lifting.

“Sure, you weren’t,” he chuckled. He set a hand lightly to the small of her back. “Hungry?”

She shook her head just as her stomach betrayed her with a loud growl.

He smirked. “How about a burger? The clubhouse makes a good one. The chef makes a sauce that’ll change your life.”

Her eyes lit up. “And fries?” she whispered, licking her lips like a child eyeing a cookie platter.

“And fries,” he promised.

She practically bounced beside him as they walked. “I had fries in London once. Perfect fries—crispy outside, soft inside. Of course, I was running from my father’s men at the time, so maybe they only tasted perfect because I was starving. But still. They were amazing.” She spun in a little half-skip, clapping her hands together before straightening, as if catching herself.

Paulo shook his head, amused despite himself. The woman could make evading henchmen sound like a picnic.

“How long have you been on the run?” he asked quietly.

“Oh, years,” she answered easily. “I graduated from finishing school at twenty-one. I didn’t want to go back, but my father insisted.” She squinched up her nose in disgust as she explained, “He wanted me to be his hostess.” She sighed, then brightened as he pulled open the clubhouse door. The savory smells washed over them, and her smile widened.