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Madelaine took a bite, and her knees nearly buckled from how good it was. Soft, sweet, the apples caramelized just right. Heaven compared to the punishment Rosa had handed Paulo.

“You’re evil,” Madelaine teased, grinning as she licked a crumb from her thumb.

Rosa only winked. “He deserves it.”

Madelaine’s smile faded slightly as she stirred her coffee.

Fifteen minutes later, she carried her calm into Paulo’s office, only to nearly laugh aloud at the sight of him painstakingly undoing the chain of paperclips and dropping each into a dish. Her fingers itched to reconnect them the moment he wasn’t looking. Petty? Absolutely. But imagining his scowl when he discovered it was almost intoxicating.

“You’re not going,” he muttered without looking up, his tone clipped. He frowned and stepped around her, the heat of his body caressing her skin before he stopped in front of a painting on the wall. His shoulders strained against his shirt as he straightened the frame delicately, every precise movement radiating control.

Her pulse skipped. The memory of those same hands holding her steady, gripping her hips with unyielding strength, made her voice sound steadier than she felt as she answered, “Oh, I’m going. Unless you’ve suddenly developed a secret talent for cooking Irish wake foods?”

He froze while adjusting the third painting, fingers splayed against the gilded frame. Then his head turned, and his dark gaze locked on hers. That flicker of panic, so rare in him, shone through again, undercutting his control. “I’ll have it catered,” he admitted gruffly.

Her lips curved despite herself, though her heart pounded. She caught sight of the trash can and the crumbled remains of her brownie. So, he had tried one. Foolish man.

“I will be there,” she repeated, softer now, her voice laced with challenge. Her gaze moved to the whiskey bottle on the table. “Did you have a few drinks last night?”

His groan was low, guttural, and far too suggestive. He shoved the bottle into a cabinet with jerky movements, as though attempting to hide both the liquor and the frustration that came with it. When he turned back, his expression was just the slightest bit softer.

“I’m sorry for using you as bait,” he muttered, looking down at her as he spoke.

Madelaine froze. The apology cracked against her anger, splitting it apart. That tone—low, raw, threaded with something dangerously close to want, melted her resistance in places she didn’t want melted.

Her chest tightened. Her throat went dry. She wanted to step closer, to trace the tension in his jaw, to press her cheek to his chest and feel his heart beating. Instead, she forced her voice steady. “Thank you.”

And before her body betrayed her, before she could do something reckless, like throw herself into his arms, she left his office, aware of every inch of space between them, aware of his eyes on her, hot enough to scorch her back as she walked away.

Chapter 31

Paulo watched Madelaine leave, her soft voice still echoing in his head. He knew it wasn’t enough. Words weren’t enough. An apology, especially one mumbled and half-drowned in whiskey, wasn’t even close.

But, he needed to shower and change clothes. Sighing, he walked upstairs, stripping off yesterday’s frustration along with his shirt, and stood under the spray. He let the water beat against his skin, trying to wash away the stink of drink and the bitterness of failure.

He’d messed up.

The agony in Madelaine’s eyes, the way her mouth had twisted when she realized how he’d used her, it gutted him more thoroughly than any blade could. He had tried to drown it with whiskey, but her pain was still carved into his mind.

So today, he needed a new plan. And plans just happened to be something he excelled at. He’d built empires, constructed entire organizations out of determination and strategy. The goal had always been simple: capture Ronan Keane. That part hadn’t changed.

But somewhere along the line, he had.

He braced his hands against the tile and bowed his head. His chest tightened as he admitted the truth—he didn’t really know her. Not in the way that mattered.

He knew her body, the way she shivered under his touch. He knew her breathless sounds, the soft whimpers, and desperate cries when he drove her over the edge. He knew the way she curled into him in sleep, fitting against him as perfectly as if she’d been made expressly for his arms.

But beyond that?

He knew she tried to be invisible. That she hated being the center of attention unless she was forced into it. He knew she loved art, though he wasn’t sure if the supplies he’d arranged had even been what she wanted. She had a hunger for learning, but that issue probably went back to the invisibility thing. She thought she needed a job, a skill so that she could survive.

But those tidbits of information weren’t enough.

He realized, with a gut punch of honesty, that he wanted to know everything. Not just her body, but her dreams. Her frustrations. The little things that made her laugh, or drove her crazy, or made her feel alive.

It wasn’t just sex.

He wanted all of her. Every stubborn, fiery, fragile part of her.