Chapter 4
Tabitha returned to her office forty-five minutes later, still mortified by her mother’s dramatic declarations. The car ride back from the train station had given her time to replay every cringe-worthy moment in detail—and to rehearse how she’d pretend none of it had happened.
She decided to start with an apology.
Armed with the research files he needed, she walked straight into Ramzi’s office.
“I’m so sorry about my mother’s interruption,” she said, her voice brisk and businesslike as she crossed the threshold. “How did the meeting with Mark Bondras go? Is he on board?”
“He is,” Ramzi replied, his deep, smooth voice wrapping around her like silk laced with steel.
He was seated behind his desk, relaxed in that impossibly large leather chair, looking entirely too comfortable and unfairly attractive. His tie was loosened. The top few buttons of his crisp white shirt undone.
Her gaze stalled.
Just below the open collar, a sliver of sun-kissed skin teased her. Her thoughts skipped. Her feet paused.
She stood frozen, clutching the reports, staring openly.
What would it be like to unbutton the rest? To trace that line of skin with her fingers—or her mouth? Was his chest bare and smooth, or dark and rugged?
Her eyes dipped lower, brushing over his flat abdomen.
Definitely not soft.
Every inch of him looked like carved marble. She had no doubt he was hard—sculpted, disciplined, precise.
“Would you like me to take it off?”
Her eyes snapped to his face. His voice had dropped lower, richer, almost amused.
Mortified, she turned away quickly, her cheeks burning.
Her mother thought she was still in love with her ex-fiancé.
That couldn’t have been further from the truth.
The second Tabitha had left her hometown behind, she’d realized she’d been settling. Especially once she started working for him.
Ramzi El Sandir was disciplined to the edge of madness. He hated broccoli as much as she did, woke up at dawn to throw himself into punishing weight sessions, and ruled with both mercy and muscle. He carried the weight of a country on his shoulders—and never flinched.
She admired him. Respected him. And, if she were being honest with herself, wanted him more than she’d ever wanted anyone in her life.
But feelings like that had no place in a professional setting.
Unfortunately, Ramzi had a way of reading people. Of slicing through pretense with a glance. She’d seen him do it in meetings—negotiations that should’ve gone sideways instead turned in his favor with a single pause, a perfectly timed silence, or a subtle shift in posture.
He was terrifyingly good at reading the room.
Which meant he probably knew exactly what she’d been thinking just now.
Her breath caught. She looked up. His eyes were still on her.
Dark. Focused. Knowing.
She glanced down quickly, trying to collect herself. “Sorry,” she said, her voice barely audible. She looked at the files in her hands, trying to remember what she’d been working on before Tilda hijacked her day.
“I’m not,” he replied.
Her heart thudded against her ribs as she looked up at him. For a moment, the world fell away. The silence between them buzzed with a low, electric hum—tense and charged with something that felt dangerously close to longing.
Was his voice huskier than before? Were his eyes smoldering with a question he wasn’t asking?
Before she could decipher the moment, Ramzi’s tone shifted.
“And yes, in answer to your question—Mark signed the papers. I now have controlling interest in Bondras Corp and all of the patents that go with it.”
Tabitha blinked, his words echoing in her head. She stood still, stunned, until the meaning finally landed. A wide, proud grin broke across her face.
Just like that, the awkward moment evaporated. That strange, pulsing awareness—surely just in her imagination—was gone.
Ramzi was back to business.
Still, it took her a heartbeat to catch up. She shook herself free from the dizzy warmth of her own ridiculous thoughts. Business. That was all this was. It had always been business.
“That’s… great,” she said, keeping her voice even. “Amazing, actually.”
She lowered her gaze, forcing herself to focus. This was her job—her career—not a daydream.
Lifting the files she’d prepared, she cleared her throat. “You mentioned an issue with paints fading in the desert sun. I found a company doing some fascinating work with–”
“Tabitha.”
She paused.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him stand. Heard the quiet rustle of fabric as he moved around the desk.
Her grip on the file folder tightened. She hugged it to her chest like armor, bracing for the impact of his nearness.
“Yes?” she managed, lifting her eyes.
And there he was. Towering. Calm. Focused.
Dangerous.
He was too handsome. Too everything. He had the kind of presence that short-circuited logic, and Tabitha could already feel the tremble starting low in her stomach. Her mother thought she was still hung up on Martin?
Puhleeze!
That had been a shallow infatuation. This—whatever this was—was much worse.
Ramzi was impossible. A future king. A man with power, vision, and a voice that could undo her composure with a single word. Women threw themselves at him—gorgeous, titled, model-perfect women. The idea that he might see her as anything more than a skilled employee was laughable.
“Breathe,” he said gently.
His voice was softer now. Lower. Definitely huskier.
She tilted her head back and met his eyes. Dark. Intense. Watchful.
“You deserve to revel in your success for a moment,” he said. “You just earned a seven-figure bonus. And I’m transferring one thousand shares of stock into your name.”
She stared at him.
Seven… figures?
Her lips parted, but no sound came out. She blinked, trying to process the sheer scale of what he’d just said.
Finally, she found her voice. “I… sir… um… Your Highness, that’s too much.”
He shook his head and placed a warm hand at the small of her back. The touch sent a jolt straight through her. Without a word, he gently steered her toward the leather sofa near the window.
“It’s not enough,” he said simply.
She sat stiffly, still clutching the folder like a life raft.
Ramzi poured two glasses of scotch from the decanter, despite the early hour. He handed her one before taking the seat across from her.
“If you hadn’t dug up that photo of Jeff Bondras on the yacht with the Hestra executives, Mark never would’ve signed. That one image changed everything. It forced him to accept that his grandson had betrayed him.”
He took a sip of the amber liquid, watching her over the rim of the glass.
“And you’re the one who found the sand additive,” he added. “You saw what no one else did—what it could mean, what it could become.”
He lowered his glass, his eyes locked on hers.
“Do you have any idea how much that will save my country, Tabitha? That one building material will reduce costs in the billions. And more importantly, it’s going to allow us to build affordable housing for people who’ve never had anything to call their own.”
She stared down into her glass, flushed from his praise. A heady mix of pride and panic swirled inside her. Being this close to Ramzi—his attention, his approval—it made her feel exposed. No one had ever made her feel this kind of raw awareness just by sitting across from her.
“There’s still so much to do,” she whispered, clinging to the safety of work talk.
“You’re right,” he said, raising his glass. “But for now, we’re going to pause and celebrate a major victory.”
He clinked his glass gently against hers.
Tabitha watched as he brought the crystal to his lips, the movement slow and fluid. Had his tongue flicked out to taste the scotch first? Her breath caught.
She stared.
And wondered—what would he taste like?
Would his kiss be smoky like the scotch, or even better? Would he be intense and smooth, or demanding and rough?
He lowered the glass, resting it against his knee as he leaned back into the leather chair with casual dominance.
“And because of your help,” he said, “now I’m going to help you.”
She started with a jerk. “Help me?”
He nodded, that faint, infuriating smile curving his lips again. She stayed perched at the edge of her seat, scotch in one hand, documents still clutched in the other like a shield. Ramzi reached out, took the folder from her grasp, and placed it gently on the coffee table.
“Yes. I’m going to help you.” His tone turned dry. “Your mother—and, from what I gather, the rest of your hometown—seem to think you’re still pining for your ex-fiancé.”
Her stomach dropped. Right. That conversation.
“I’m not!” she snapped, her voice sharper than she intended. “I have no feelings for Martin. Just revulsion. And disgust.”
“Good.” He nodded, the sunlight catching the shine in his dark hair.
She had to look away. Her fingers ached to reach out and touch that hair—to learn its texture, to see if it was soft, if it curled when damp… if he’d make a sound the way she did when someone stroked her scalp just right.
Stop. She slammed the thought closed before it could run wild.
But his next words detonated whatever focus she had left.
“We’re going to Hendersonville for the long weekend of wedding festivities. That way, you’ll be with your best friend for her wedding weekend.” He tilted his head. “Is it Sandy?”
“Stacy,” Tabitha corrected automatically, her heart skittering.
Go to her hometown? With Ramzi?
Yes, they’d traveled before—but those were work trips. Business. Strategy. Logistics.
This?
This sounded dangerously personal.
He nodded. “Right. Stacy. You’ll be by her side all weekend. Bachelorette party, wedding, all of it. What other events are planned?”
“Um…” She stared into her glass, her thoughts stalling. “There’s a barbeque Thursday night. For the out-of-town guests.”
“Good. What else?”
She swallowed hard. “The bachelorette party is Friday. Then the wedding and reception Saturday. And brunch on Sunday.”