Chapter 7
Saif left the restaurant with his jaw tight and his patience worn thin—not with the businessmen who had wasted his time pitching flimsy ideas, but with himself.
Three men. One polished proposal. A dinner of prime steak with Béarnaise sauce and a bottle of wine he’d handpicked for its precise structure and finish.
He didn’t remember a word of what had been said.
Couldn’t recall the flavor of the steak. Hadn’t even registered the wine as it slid down his throat.
All of it had blurred into the background the moment Jemma re-entered his life.
Or rather, the moment she’d stumbled back into it—soaked to the skin, haunted behind the eyes, still proud as hell.
She was hiding something. That much was obvious.
But what?
Yes, she was shielding her brother. That much, he understood. Respected, even. Loyalty was something Saif valued more than most.
He remembered Jasper clearly from a year ago.
The kid had been taller than most men his age, almost six feet already, lanky and energetic, sharp as a blade.
He used to sit at Saif’s dinner table, cracking dumb jokes while rattling off facts about neuroscience or ancient civilizations like he was reciting a movie script.
Jasper had been the kind of kid who read four books a week for fun—on top of schoolwork. He’d been destined for greatness. Possibly even brilliance.
So what the hell had pushed that kid to break into a high-security office and vandalize it like a common delinquent?
Stripping off his clothes, Saif stepped into the shower, hoping to scrub away the tension. The water was hot, but it didn’t help. The questions clung to him like steam.
And then there was Jemma.
She hadn’t just looked drenched. She’d looked wrung out. There had been no coat and no umbrella.
She had a damn car, so why had she appeared completely drenched. Why hadn’t she used the garage?
Had she walked in the rain on purpose?
Why?
And why had she looked like she hadn’t slept in days?
He clenched his jaw, his fists resting against the cool tile.
The worst part?
He’d noticed. Everything.
The way her white blouse clung to her skin, transparent and sinful. The way her nipples had pressed against the fabric—taut, flushed, undeniably arousing.
And his body had reacted. Violently.
Of course it had.
Because he was a breast man. That’s all it was. Any woman, in that state, would have sparked the same response. It was simple biology.
Except it wasn’t just biology, was it?
He’d had every opportunity in the last year to find a new mistress. Women flirted with him constantly. Wealth, power, reputation—he had it all.
They wanted the billionaire. The name. The prestige.
They didn’t want him.
Jemma had wanted him. Not his money. Not his company. Him.
That was what made her dangerous.
And irresistible.
Damn it, even thinking about her now made his body respond all over again.
Her curves. Her laugh. That sharp wit and the way she could be goofy and sexy in the same breath. The memory of her teasing him, laughing at him, with him. It had felt real. Grounding.
He cursed under his breath, slamming the shower knob to off. He toweled himself off with brutal efficiency, ignoring the stubborn arousal that refused to fade.
He would not let her undo him again.
Tomorrow, he would take control.
He would bend her to his will. Make her answer to him. Make her feel what it was like to be powerless. To be used. Dismissed.
Just like she’d done to him.
He didn’t sleep that night. His mind spun with questions, unsolved pieces of a puzzle he didn’t yet understand. And beneath the fury, something more dangerous pulsed—an ache for answers.