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She concentrated on drawing his hand as precisely as possible, noting every detail. When she messed up on the first attempt, she tossed the paper beside her and tried again. And again. Slowly, as she focused only on the next line, the dusting of hair on the back of his hand where his wrist disappeared under his dress shirt, the careful line of his fingernail and the intricacies of his knuckle, she slowly relaxed. For a moment, she laid her head against the cushions and closed her eyes. She hadn’t figured anything out yet, but her mind had finally relaxed enough to try.

As she drifted off to sleep, one question nagged at her; what did Paulo mean to her now? And what would she do when she had to leave his house?

Chapter 22

Paulo stepped into the room, immediately finding Madelaine. She was curled up on the sofa, small against the cushions, her dark hair spilling over one cheek. Her mouth was parted slightly, her lashes dark against her pale skin, hiding the blue eyes that had a way of undoing him.

A freckle dotted the bridge of her nose. No, three freckles. He hadn’t noticed them before. Probably because when her eyes were open, they consumed his attention.

Well, he’d memorized other parts of her too. The sweet curve of her ass, the lush weight of her breasts, the warm, silken skin of her thighs, and that exquisite place between her legs. But none of it was enough. He wanted more. He wanted…

What?

He didn’t know. He only knew the reminder slammed into him again: she wasn’t here for this. She was supposed to be bait.

The word felt rotten in his mind. Disgust curled through him at the plan he’d set in motion. It had been bad enough when she was just a name, the daughter of his enemy. But now? Now that he knew her sweetness, her generosity, her quiet resilience, and the insecurities she hid behind stubborn smiles, it made him feel like a bastard of the worst kind.

He owed her more than this. He owed her safety. He owed her honesty. He owed her… something he wasn’t sure how to give.

His jaw tightened as he sat, noticing the scattered papers on the floor. He picked them up, curiosity tugging at him. Hands. Dozens of hands.

At first, he almost dismissed it as some old-fashioned pastime, the kind of “ladylike” skill finishing schools might have stuffed down her throat. But then he looked closer. The lines were precise, strong. Familiar.

These were his hands.

Over and over again, she’d drawn him. Not perfectly, but well enough that he recognized his own knuckles, the veins, the angle of his wrist. She had talent. But more than that—why him? Why his hands?

A knot tightened in his chest.

He turned back to her, studying her face in the soft light of dawn. So delicate. So deceptively fragile. And yet she was stronger than anyone gave her credit for, including him.

“What the hell am I doing?” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. He should leave her here. Let her sleep. Punish himself with distance. His penance for using her as bait would be denying himself the pleasure of her company.

He took two steps toward the door.

Then stopped.

With a quiet curse, he turned back. He couldn’t resist. Carefully, gently, he slid his arms beneath her and lifted her.

“Paulo?” she whispered, her eyes fluttering open. She wasn’t fully awake, not yet. But the moment she saw him, her lips curved into a soft, trusting smile that pierced him deeper than any blade.

She snuggled into him, her arms circling his neck. “I’m too heavy.”

“Nonsense,” he growled, though his voice was softer than he intended. She weighed almost nothing to him.

He carried her upstairs and into his bedroom, laying her carefully on the bed. Stripping off his own clothes, he slid in beside her and pulled her into his arms.

She was still dressed, but he didn’t care. Not tonight. For once, he didn’t want sex, didn’t want control. He just wanted her here with him.

He pressed his face into her hair, breathing her in as she sighed with contentment and slipped back into sleep.

And for the first time in years, Paulo Ruffino wondered if he was the one in danger, because this woman was unraveling everything he thought he was.

Chapter 23

Ronan stared up at the house. She was living here, apparently. His ungrateful bitch of a daughter was inside, hiding behind someone else’s walls, spreading her legs for some asshole billionaire instead of being home and doing her duty to her family, to him.

Fury burned his chest like acid, scorching his gut, filling his throat. She thought she could run? Thought she could escape him? She belonged to him until he decided otherwise.