Page 29

And I would hold her in my palm.

"Purely professional." I echoed her words softly, banking every wild impulse, then let genuine warmth surface.

I lifted the champagne I'd been waiting to offer and held it toward her.

"Ms. Caldwell, you seem to have a small misunderstanding about me and Moretti Group's professionalism." I kept my voice gentle but convincing. "I'm a businessman. At Paris Fashion Week, where tens of millions of euros are at stake, I would never let personal, irrational emotions cloud my judgment."

She froze, staring at the glass.

"I brought you to Paris for one reason—" I dropped the smile and switched to pure CEO authority. "Your analysis at the final interview. That eighteenth-century Neapolitan damask breakdown. Most insightful, most instinctive fabric deconstruction I've seen from the department in years."

Her mouth dropped open slightly, amber eyes filling with disbelief. "You... you read my report?"

"I told you. I never miss a perfect piece of work. Including talent." I pressed the champagne into her hand, carefully avoiding skin contact. "Drop the worry, Ruby. Treat this Paris trip as your career springboard. Prove your professional value to me. Prove I didn't misjudge you. If you do, this will be the beginning of changing your life completely."

No one could resist that.

I watched her panic and defensiveness drain away, replaced by something stunning—raw ambition and light.

"I understand, Mr. Moretti." She breathed deep, finally relaxing. She raised her glass toward mine and smiled with total confidence. "I absolutely won't let you down."

"I'm counting on it."

We clinked glasses, the crystal chime ringing through the cabin.

Just like that, we'd reached an adult understanding, wrapped in decorum. I'd soothed the skittish deer, made her willing to stay in my territory—even eager about the work ahead.

Over the next few hours, she pulled her chestnut hair into a knot, exposing the honey-toned curve of her neck. She sipped champagne and dove into the Paris supplier files my secretary had prepared, asking quiet questions when she hit something unfamiliar.

I answered every one patiently, savoring this closeness without friction.

Until the night flight dimmed the cabin lights to deep blue starlight mode.

Alcohol and exhaustion finally beat her. The file slipped from her fingers. She leaned her cheek against the wide seat edge and drifted off.

I set down my tablet and turned to watch her sleep.

In the low light, she'd dropped every defense. Thick lashes cast fragile shadows. Her parted lips moved faintly with each breath.

Right then, the controlled gentleman mask I'd worn cracked slightly.

That primal Sicilian possessiveness surged silently in my chest. I remembered her skin's warmth that night, the rose tattooed on her right collarbone, how she'd gone from shy to feverish beneath me.

"Fucking hell..." I cursed inwardly. She was right here, within reach, and I had to sit like a goddamn saint.

But I crushed the impulse to touch her thigh, to pull her roughly into my arms.

She wasn't some woman you could buy with money and power. She deserved respect. Cherishing. I'd promised her a chance to prove herself. I wouldn't shatter the trust she'd barely built.

I unbuttoned my bespoke suit jacket and slipped it off.

Leaning over carefully, I draped it gently across her—my warmth, my scent of cedar and faint tobacco settling over her.

She inhaled in her sleep. Instead of pulling away, she burrowed half her face into my collar like a kitten seeking safety, sighing contentedly.

Watching her wrapped completely in my scent, a soft but iron-firm sense of possession bloomed inside me.

"Sleep well, piccola rosa."