Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
RAFAEL
“You realize the two of you have offices of your own,” Rafael remarked as he skimmed the contract. “Or you could go home.”
Laurent was stretched across the leather sofa like he’d been born there. Max had claimed the armchair, one ankle crossed over his knee, coffee in hand. They’d heard Bea was coming. They stayed because they liked to watch him bleed patience.
There was a light knock on the door, then Bea appeared in a black skirt and light blue silk blouse, brown waves swept back, tote slung over her shoulder. He felt the hunger rise. He’d spent hours in the arena—contracts, deals, demands—and now he wanted his spoils. Her.
All three of them rose at her entrance, the courtesy engrained. She saw her take them in; they were all, unusually, in full suits from the day’s meetings.
“You’re late,” Laurent drawled, sitting again. “Do you know how long Mercer and I have had to stall for?”
Bea laughed, startled. That sound did something to Rafael’s chest. “Why were you waiting for me?”
“Because he can’t greet you the way he wants to when we’re here,” Laurent said like the nuisance he was.
Rafael didn’t dignify it with words. He simply rose, crossed the room, and caught her mouth in his. Firm, claiming, tasting the sweetness of her just long enough to silence them and to leave her blinking, dazed. It wasn’t nearly enough, but he couldn’t take more.
“Did you have lunch with my mother today?”
“Ummm.” Bea gathered herself. “Of course, it’s Wednesday. She invited me to dinner at your parents’ place.”
“Dinner in is not the same thing as lunch out, chérie,” Laurent advised. “You know that, right?”
Max piled on, “Once you step into that house, there’s no stepping out again.”
Rafael slid an arm around her waist, pulling her lightly to his side. “Ignore them.”
“I think I can handle a night with the Griffins.”
The way she said it almost made him smile.
“Any advice on a hostess gift?” she asked the room at large.
“How about a goat?” Laurent stretched. “Practical, memorable, symbolic. Leon would love it.”
“A contract,” Max countered, closing his notebook with a snap. “Blank. Sign your name, let Griffin fill in the rest. Saves time.”
Bea laughed, but Rafael had had enough. “Can you two obstructionists get out of my office already?”
Laurent rose, brushing imaginary lint from his suit sleeve. “Ungrateful. That goat suggestion was culturally rich. I learned it at one of our sites in Africa.”
Max drained the last of his coffee and stood. “I know a good family law firm if you ever need it, Bea.”
Rafael didn’t bother answering. He walked to the door, opened it, and waited. Silence did the work for him. Laurent tossed Bea a wink as he passed. Max gave her a polite nod. The door shut behind them.
Rafael exhaled through his nose. Finally. His office, his girl, and no reason to hold back. He was already heading back to her, intent on shutting the world out, pressing her against the glass, taking the kiss that had been clawing at him since she walked in.
The vibration on his desk cut through the thought. He saw the name. His fists clenched. Another interruption. Damn it.
“I have to take this.”
“Take your time. I’ve got a book.” Bea curled up in her favorite spot by the window.
He tapped the call through on speaker, already unlocking his computer.
His voice dropped into its other register, forged in military drills and boardrooms where weakness was eaten alive.
But it wasn’t just that; he was terrible at compartmentalizing. Wanting Bea, irritation at the call—both currents bled into his tone until it came out harder than usual.
“Griffin. Update me.” A pause. Excuses. “Not acceptable.” He listened, jaw locked. “Double it. Deadline is Friday. Find a way.” More palming off of responsibility. “Then replace them.”
Each answer came faster, clipped to the bone. His pen rapped against the desk in even, ruthless time, driving the pressure until the caller cracked and the line went dead.
He turned to her. Bea’s book was open but the page hadn’t turned. Her eyes were on him, wide, as though she were adding something new to her canon of him.
“What’s up?” he purposely modulated his tone, gentling it for her.
“Now might not be a good time to ask what I was going to ask.” She gripped her phone.
“Ask me. But first, come here.”
She put her book and phone down and moved toward him slowly, as if approaching something volatile. Stopped in front of his desk. “Can you…relax first? You’re making me nervous.”
He regarded her for a beat. Then he reached up, flicked open the top button of his shirt, tugged his tie down an inch. She watched each movement as if mesmerized.
“I’m relaxed. Now tell me.”
A deep breath. “Maris wants me to go out to one of the rural sites in a couple of weeks.”
He leaned back, chair creaking. “Go on.” No reaction yet, because she was holding back the part that was the problem.
“There are irregularities in the accounting of one of our projects,” she continued. Her tone was measured in a way she only used when she expected resistance.
“And?”
Bea idly traced the words on his nameplate: Rafael Griffin: Head of International Development. Stalling. He wasn’t going to like what came next.
“It’ll be me…and Jaxon.”
Dao.
The GEP was done. Dao should’ve been, too.
“No one else?”
She nodded once. “Three nights. He offered to drive.”
Over his dead body.
“So this is you—asking me to allow it?” He felt the lick of fire crawling higher up his spine. No raised voice, no threat, just a remembrance of where she stood in his orbit, and how little he liked sharing it.
Bea studied him, expression unreadable. He expected justifications, argument. He didn’t expect motion.
She moved. Not away. Toward him.
Her hand found the armrest, swiveling his chair to face her. And then, with a deliberateness that set his body roaring, she lowered herself into his lap. His lungs filled with the light fragrance of vanilla.
Every neuron in his brain abandoned ship, like mutinous sailors swimming headlong toward the siren. If only she knew, at that moment he might have agreed to anything. His arms snaked around her.
She turned her face up to his. “I won’t go if you don’t want me to,” she said quietly. “But it’s my work. Maris asked me for a reason.”
Because she was good at her job. He respected that. At any other time, it would’ve been a point of pride. But she and Dao had built a connection during the GEP—while he’d warned off every man in Northgate, himself included. The irony wasn’t lost on him.
His palms slid down her arms, testing her nerve. Goosebumps rose there. He leaned in, nose at her nape, dragging in the intoxicating smell of her.
“Three nights,” he repeated, voice dark. “With Dao.”
“Not just Jaxon. Spreadsheets, audit trails, receipts.”
The door knocked once before cracking open. His assistant Mark stepped in, tablet in hand, and froze. Rafael met his eyes with a look that was pure execution.
Mark’s brow lifted as Bea buried her face in Rafael’s neck, going red, unused to being caught in his arms.
Mark eased back, flipped the lock from the inside, and pulled the door firmly shut. Just before it closed, Rafael caught the smirk. That lock better hold because the next man who attempted to enter his office was getting transferred to a remote mining site.
Rafael cut his eyes to Bea. “Receipts don’t bother me. Dao does.” Calm, vague, acting like he belonged near her.
Her chin tipped ever so slightly higher. “You don’t trust him. But you trust me.”
“I do.” The answer was immediate. His palm flattened on her thigh, dragging her closer into the breadth of him.
“So prove it. Let me go. Without pouting about it,” she said, putting a hand to his chest.
His eyes held hers, knuckles brushing her throat lightly. The briefest test of how fast her pulse was running. “Fine.” His voice dropped. “But you’ll owe me.”
“Owe you what?” she whispered.
“I don’t know, little Bea.” He leaned in just enough for her breath to catch. “What have you got?”
A tiny spark in her dark eyes. She kissed him, softly, sweetly. “How about that?”
“We’ll call that the opening bid.”
Roses. Hundreds of them.
A riot of color lined either side of a pale stone path toward a house that looked like it had been there for centuries.
The McLaren was parked in front of the Griffin home. Cypress trees, terracotta rooflines. It was the kind of scene people painted in oil on canvas. Rather than feeling daunting, it invited you to come closer.
Rafael opened the passenger door. Bea smoothed down her dress and alighted. The floral scent was fragrant, bursting with life.
The door opened before the bell finished ringing.
“Bea,” Selene said, hands already reaching for hers.
“Theia,” she returned brightly. “Thank you for inviting me.”
“Mama.” Rafael bent to kiss his mother’s cheek. Selene smiled up at him, then pulled Bea gently forward. “Come in.”
Selene led them through the foyer into a room that was clearly built to be the center of the home.
The ceiling soared overhead, timber trusses crossing in sharp triangles, beams thick as tree trunks. Skylights poured summer sunlight across stone arches and dark bookcases. Side tables held lamps and flowers that looked cut that morning, petals still damp.
And in the middle, bold and mischievous: the crimson sofa. Bea’s lips twitched. Definitely Selene’s doing. It sat like a heartbeat, tugging four cream armchairs closer, daring the room not to take itself too seriously.
At the far end stretched a dining table, wood burnished by years of use. She imagined debates there, decisions over lamb shanks. Rugs blazed in ochre and orange beneath it, their edges blurred soft with footsteps.
“Theia, I love this room,” Bea breathed.
“Me, too. This is our family grotto,” Selene said, smiling.