Page 43

His teeth clenched. He tapped the keyboard, hard. The screen blinked to life, finally. Muttering, he entered his password, clicked toward his email, except the cursor didn’t move.

Jaw flexing, Paulo grabbed his phone. “Mick, send someone up to my office immediately. My computer isn’t working.” For a moment, he listened to Mick then….!

He flipped the mouse over.

A sticky note was plastered across the sensor.

He ripped it off, muttering a vicious stream of expletives, and ended the call to the sound of Mick’s laughter crackling down the line.

Paulo looked up, scanning the room carefully. The security cameras. They were always live when he wasn’t here. He could shut them off, and often did. But this unsettled feeling crawling down his spine wasn’t about cameras. It was something else.

Something…female.

Madelaine.

The devilish glint in her eyes when she’d offered him the plate of brownies flashed behind his eyes. Had she done this? Moved his pens? Rearranged his drawers? Planted the damn sticky note?

The woman was messing with him. Testing him.

And yet, instead of fury, a low chuckle rumbled from his chest.

Still, the unease lingered. She’d been creating devil hands. Creepy, clawed things that had unsettled even him. Macabre, yes, but also weirdly talented.

He pushed back from the desk, rubbing his neck, and strode out of his office. He needed to find her. Make sure she was safe. Make sure she wasn’t planning round two of her personal war against his sanity.

He found her in her bedroom, propped against a mountain of pillows like a queen, sketchpad in her lap. Her hair spilled around her shoulders, and the light from the lamp caught the curve of her cheek.

His body ached at the sight. If he’d been honest from the start, she might still be in his bed instead of looking coldly at him with those raised, skeptical brows, as if she could see every secret he hadn’t confessed.

“Are you ever going to forgive me,” he asked roughly, “for not bringing you into the loop?”

She didn’t answer him immediately. After a long beat, without looking up, she said, “I made a list of foods you should serve at the wake for my father. All of his favorites. It’ll rub salt into the wound when he finds out. Plus, it’ll make the wake feel more authentic. I chose dishes people will recognize from his table, things that’ll spark memories.”

Paulo tilted his head. “That’s…smart. Thank you.”

“You didn’t see the list?” she asked, finally looking up. She closed the book, but kept her finger tucked inside to mark her place.

“No. Where did you leave it?”

“In the center of your desk,” she answered, then opened her book again, deliberately dismissing him.

For a second, Paulo nearly stalked over, plucked the book from her hands, and tossed it across the room. But no, that would only prove her right. He needed to win back her trust, not fuel her rebellion.

So, he turned on his heel and went back downstairs, jaw clenched. If she’d taken the trouble to make that list, then he would damn well use it. He’d send it to his assistant and make sure every dish was served at the fake wake.

Sure enough, there it was, sitting smack in the middle of his desk, right under the files he’d brought home from his meetings. Her neat handwriting listed out traditional Irish foods, each name another jab at her father. He stared at the list a moment longer than necessary, something dangerously close to fondness filling his chest. Even her handwriting was pretty.

Folding the page, Paulo headed to the kitchen. It was late, already past nine. Where the hell had the day gone?

He opened the fridge, and his mood soured immediately. A plate of boiled chicken and broccoli sat under plastic wrap, Rosa’s petty vengeance in all its pale, unseasoned glory.

He pulled it out, stared at it, then scraped the whole thing straight into the trash. Knowing Rosa, she hadn’t even salted the damn chicken. His housekeeper had officially chosen Madelaine’s side.

Paulo had built his life into something terrifying. Police, politicians, CEOs, rival gangs—they all feared him. The world feared him. Yet somehow, his curvy, blue-eyed little houseguest and his meddling housekeeper didn’t fear him at all.

Hell, they barely respected him!

His temper surged, and he tossed the plate into the sink with enough force that it nearly shattered. He needed control back. His world back.