Chapter 3
Cassian
The Carlton's private dining room had served its purpose. Vincent Calabrese left with the impression I wanted—that I was interested but not desperate, powerful but reasonable. The shipping ports would be mine within the month, whether Vincent realized it yet or not.
But business wasn't what occupied my thoughts as we left the restaurant.
"You did well in there," I told Isla as we stepped into the cool night air. "Vincent doesn't usually respond to new faces."
"I didn't say much." She kept her eyes forward, her profile illuminated by the streetlights.
"You didn't need to."
The valet brought my Bentley around. I opened the passenger door for her, noting how she hesitated before sliding in, careful not to brush against me. The caution was telling. Most women leaned in, manufactured reasons to touch. Isla did the opposite.
I circled to the driver's side, giving myself a moment to analyze what about her had me so… distracted. She was beautiful, yes. But I'd had beautiful women before. This was something else. Something unsettling.
"Where are we going?" she asked as I pulled into traffic.
"Back to the office. There are documents I need to review before tomorrow." I glanced at her. "Unless you have other plans?"
"At eleven thirty at night?" A hint of sarcasm colored her voice.
I smiled. "You'd be surprised what happens in this city after midnight."
"I have a fairly good idea." Her tone was dry, almost knowing.
I caught the flash of something in her eyes—a confidence that hadn't been present during her interview. This was the real Isla Quinn, I suspected. Not the deferential assistant, but a woman with spine and wit.
Interesting.
The office building was nearly empty when we arrived, just security and the night cleaning crew. We rode the elevator in silence, her scent filling the enclosed space—something subtle, floral with notes of vanilla. It stirred something in my memory, a phantom sensation I couldn't place.
"Your perfume," I said abruptly. "What is it?"
She stiffened. "I don't wear perfume."
"Everyone wears something."
"Just soap and lotion." She shifted away slightly. "Nothing special."
I leaned closer, inhaling near her neck. "I disagree."
Her breath caught—sharp, audible in the elevator's silence. She went perfectly still, not pulling away but frozen like prey under a predator's gaze. I felt her pulse jump beneath the delicate skin of her throat, saw the flush creeping up from her collarbone.
There. That reaction. Not fear. Something else entirely.
"Mr. Barone—" Her voice came out rougher than intended.
"Citrus," I murmured, close enough that my breath stirred the fine hairs at her nape. "And vanilla. Subtle. But distinctive."
The elevator jerked suddenly, lights flickering. Isla grabbed the handrail as we came to an abrupt stop between floors.
"Perfect," she muttered.
I reached for the emergency phone, confirmed with security what I already suspected—a power surge. Maintenance was aware, and they estimated it would take 15 minutes to restore service. I hung up and turned to find Isla staring at the ceiling, her jaw tight.
"Claustrophobic?" I asked.
"No." She crossed her arms. "Just not thrilled about being trapped."
I studied her in the dim emergency lighting. She'd worn her hair up for dinner, exposing the elegant line of her neck. A few strands had escaped, curling against her skin. My fingers itched to brush them away, to feel if her skin was as soft as it looked.
"Tell me something, Ms. Quinn."
"What would you like to know, Mr. Barone?" Her voice was steady, but I caught the slight acceleration in her breathing.
"Why did you apply for this position? The truth this time."
Her eyes narrowed. "I told you. I needed work after my mother—"
"Your mother didn't die." I watched her reaction carefully. "There's no death certificate, no obituary. I checked."
Color drained from her face. "You investigated me?"
"I investigate everyone who comes into my life." I moved closer, not crowding her, but eliminating the careful distance she'd maintained. "I know when I'm being lied to."
The elevator seemed to shrink around us. Her scent grew stronger—or perhaps I was just more attuned to it now, searching for why it triggered something in me.
"My mother isn't dead," she admitted finally. "But she was sick. I took time off to care for her."
Another lie. I could taste it in the air between us.
"What else are you hiding, Isla?"
Her eyes flashed. "Everyone has secrets, Mr. Barone. Even you."
"Especially me." I placed my hand on the wall beside her head, not touching her but blocking her escape route. "The difference is, I'm the one who signs your paychecks."
"Is that a threat?"
"An observation."
She didn't shrink away. Instead, she lifted her chin, defiant. "I'm good at my job. That's all that should matter."
"You've been my assistant for less than a week. The jury's still out on how good you are."
"Then perhaps you should let me prove myself professionally instead of interrogating me in a stalled elevator."
I laughed, genuinely surprised by her backbone. Most people cowered when I applied pressure. Isla pushed back.
"Fair point." I didn't move away. "Though I find this setting rather… conducive to honest conversation."
"There's nothing honest about power imbalance," she countered.
"Power is never balanced, Ms. Quinn. It shifts, ebbs, flows." I leaned closer, close enough to see the gold flecks in her brown eyes. "Right now, I have it. But that doesn't mean you're powerless."
Her breath caught. "What does that mean?"
"It means you affect me more than you should."
The confession surprised us both. I hadn't meant to say it aloud, yet there it was, hanging in the air between us. Her eyes widened, lips parting slightly.
"Mr. Barone—"
"Cassian," I corrected. "We're trapped in an elevator at midnight. I think we can dispense with formalities."
"Cassian." My name on her lips sent heat through my veins. "This is inappropriate."
"Undoubtedly." I traced the edge of her jaw with my finger, felt her pulse leap beneath my touch. "Tell me to stop."
She didn't. Her eyes darkened, pupils dilating as her gaze dropped to my mouth. The air between us thickened, charged with something dangerous and inevitable.
I bent my head, drawn to her like gravity. Her eyes fluttered closed, her breath warm against my lips—
The elevator jerked back to life, lights blazing overhead. We sprang apart as if burned, the moment shattered by fluorescent reality.
Isla smoothed her dress, her composure returning with each floor we ascended. By the time the doors opened to my executive suite, she was once again the professional assistant, though her cheeks remained flushed.
"The documents you needed to review?" she prompted, voice admirably steady.
I straightened my tie, mentally recalibrating. "My office. I'll show you what needs to be prepared for tomorrow's meeting."
She nodded and walked ahead of me, her heels clicking on the marble floor. I watched her move, the elegant sway of her hips, the straight line of her spine. Something about her nagged at me, like a word on the tip of my tongue, a face glimpsed in a crowd.
I'd figure it out eventually. I always did.
My office was dark save for the city lights streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I flipped on a lamp rather than the overhead lights, keeping the atmosphere intimate. Professional, but with an edge.
A test. Would she object to the dim lighting? Ask me to turn on the overheads for propriety's sake? Most women would have—the smart ones, anyway. The ones who understood that darkness and proximity were tools men like me used deliberately.
She didn't. Just moved to the desk, waiting for direction, her silhouette outlined by the city lights behind her.
Interesting.
"The Calabrese portfolio," I said, unlocking my desk drawer and removing a thick file. "I need you to familiarize yourself with everything in here by morning."
She took the file, careful not to let our fingers touch. "All of it?"
"Problem?"
"No." She met my gaze steadily. "I'll have it done."
"Good." I moved to the bar cart in the corner. "Drink?"
"No, thank you."
"Still on the clock?" I poured myself two fingers of scotch.
"Still need to drive home."
I paused with the glass halfway to my lips. "Where do you live?"
She hesitated. "Brooklyn. Sterling Place between Vanderbilt and Underhill Avenues."
"That's a long commute."
"I manage."
I sipped my scotch, studying her over the rim of the glass. "You're not what I expected, Isla Quinn."
"What did you expect?"
"Someone more… pliable."
A flash of anger crossed her face before she masked it. "I'm sorry to disappoint."
"I didn't say I was disappointed." I set my glass down. "Quite the opposite."
She clutched the file to her chest like armor. "Will there be anything else tonight?"
"Just one thing." I closed the distance between us, moving slowly to give her time to retreat. She didn't. "The elevator. That wasn't just me."
Her throat worked as she swallowed. "I don't know what you mean."
"Yes, you do." I touched her chin, tilting her face up. "You felt it too."
For a moment, her defenses faltered. I saw naked want in her eyes, the same heat that had nearly consumed us both.
"It doesn't matter what I felt," she said softly. "Some lines shouldn't be crossed."
"All lines can be crossed, Isla. It's just a question of who's willing to pay the price."
She stepped back, breaking the connection. "Goodnight, Mr. Barone."
I let her go, watching as she gathered her coat and bag. At the door, she paused.
"For what it's worth," she said without turning, "you're not what I expected either."
Then she was gone, the click of the door punctuating her exit.
I returned to the window, scotch in hand, watching until I saw her emerge from the building below. She hailed a cab rather than walking to the subway—smart, given the hour. I waited until the taillights disappeared into traffic before pulling out my phone.