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The seatbelt snapped free. The metal buckle bounced off the leather seat with a sharp clink.

"I... I'm tired! Mr. Moretti, good night!"

She didn't look at me. She grabbed her canvas bag, shoved the door open, and leapt out.

Rain slanted across the portico. She didn't even try to avoid it. She stumbled toward the gilded revolving door in her short boots, the deep-red hem of her dress whipping violently in the cold wind—like a red fox fleeing a hunter's crosshairs.

The doorman stood frozen on the steps, umbrella half-open, staring as she disappeared under the brilliant crystal chandeliers of the lobby.

The car door hung open. Damp autumn wind from Paris poured into the back seat, sweeping away the lingering sweet almond scent.

I leaned back in my seat. The shocking heat I'd felt through that thin knit fabric still lingered on my fingertip. A low, hoarse laugh finally escaped my throat.

Chapter 9

Ruby

The suite's heavy wooden door slammed shut behind me. The bolt clicked into place with a sharp snap, sealing off the corridor completely.

My spine pressed hard against the cold door panel, chest heaving violently. Every breath scraped through my throat like fire. I lifted my hand, pressing the back of it against my burning cheeks. The temperature there could've fried a steak.

Christ, what the hell was I doing? Running through the streets of Le Marais like some idiot who'd had her tail stepped on?

I closed my eyes, and Marcelo's face materialized without warning in the darkness—standing by that ivy-covered stone wall. The golden afternoon light had outlined his sharp jawline, those deep gray-green eyes dancing with lazy amusement, and that thumb with its rough calluses gripping my chin. His lips had nearly touched my ear, his warm breath mixed with fig and cedar cologne, practically dragging me back to that night.

That trembling on the deep gray silk sheets, his hoarse panting in my ear, and the dominance every time he forced me to look into his eyes...

"Fuck, Ruby, stop." I bit down, smacking my forehead hard.

I needed to calm down. I needed something cold, something to clear my head. The bathroom—yes, a shower.

I kicked off my flats, padded barefoot across the living room, rushed into the master bedroom, twisted the lock, and dove into the bathroom.

The shower spray hit me head-on. Ice cold. I shivered.

Get it together, Ruby. You're here to work.

I closed my eyes, letting the water stream down my face. But my mind replayed everything from today—his fingertips "accidentally" brushing my waist at the studio, his lips nearly touching my ear when he called out my measurements, and just now in the alley when his thumb lifted my chin, those gray-green eyes burning with undisguised fire that made my heart stop.

"Damn it..." I cursed quietly, burying my face in my palms. I couldn't deny it—in those moments, my body betrayed me.

When he got close, every pore in my skin screamed. I wanted to back away, but my legs felt like lead. I wanted to push him off, but my fingers curled helplessly.

Worse still, when he called me "little rose" in that low, dangerous voice, I felt a faint, embarrassing flutter deep in my belly. Just like that night.

Stop it, Ruby!

I twisted the faucet hard. The water stopped abruptly.

I couldn't go on like this. This was a work trip. Marcelo Moretti was my boss, the man who controlled my career.

That night was an accident—a ridiculous mistake we both should forget. And everything he did today was just...

Was just what?

"He's playing you, Ruby." Mary's voice suddenly rang sharp in my head. "That's what rich men do. They make you feel special, then kick you to the curb when they're bored."

I clenched my jaw, roughly toweling myself dry.