Page 120 of Claimed At First Sight

Her dark hair spills over one shoulder. Her expression is softer. Not submissive. Never that, but open in a way I’ve never seen on her before.

It’s only now that I notice the vehicle has rolled to a stop and both Philip and Leon have stepped out. How have I missed this?

Thankfully, they know better than to open my door when I appear occupied.

And hell, am I occupied.

I turn another page. Then another. My pulse thuds a little harder. I don’t even realize I’m leaning forward until the leather seat creaks beneath me.

There are dozens of photographs. How long did this take?

I adjust my pants. I’m so uncomfortably hard the imprint of my zipper might forever be tattooed onto me.

Mia is sin personified. I can’t take my eyes off her.

The photographs aren’t random. The lighting, the angles, and the poses… everything seems carefully planned and executed.

A muscle jumps in my jaw. This Lee Roberts spent hours looking at her, seeing her like this.

Hours.

He would have guided her into each pose, stepped close enough to brush a loose strand of hair from her face or tilt her chin toward the light. He would have watched her smile when he told her to, studied her while she held still for each shot, capturing expressions I’ve never seen.

And Mia let him.

I tug at my tie. My jaw locks.

I flip back a page. Then forward again. My eyes snag on the way she’s looking just past the camera in one image.

The photographer was close. Too close.

Every expression, every glance, every slight curve of her mouth is captured.

My teeth grind together.

Another man seeing her like this? It’s unacceptable.

The guards at the gate flash through my mind, and the pieces suddenly click into place.

The delayed delivery. Donald’s reaction. The way he struggled not to smile every time the package came up.

A dangerous calm settles over me.

Two hours.

This book sat in the gatehouse for two fucking hours. Those filthy bastards were gawking at Mia.

Slowly, I close the book and slide it back into the envelope. Opening the door, I step out of the car, feeling murderous.

“Leon, replace the guards at the gate and take Donald and his partner back to the warehouse. In fact, find out if anybody else here has handled this package.”

He pauses briefly, having sensed my mood shift, then says, “Understood.”

I take a deep breath, rolling my neck from side to side in an attempt to release some of the tension coiled there. I need some semblance of calm before I enter the house.

The attempt lasts all of three seconds.

My gaze drops to the envelope tucked beneath my arm. Immediately, I remember Mia on that bed. The translucent nightgown. The black lace beneath it.