Chapter 7
Cassian
Iwatched her walk away, her burgundy silk dress shifting with each step. Something primal in me wanted to follow, to finish what that dance had started. But Cassian Barone didn't chase women—especially not employees with secrets.
"Quite the assistant you've found," Marco commented, appearing at my shoulder with two whiskeys. He handed me one. "She handled Calabrese well tonight. Both times."
"She did." I took the glass, not taking my eyes off the exit Isla had disappeared through.
"She also handled you well on that dance floor." There was amusement in Marco's voice. "Didn't give you an inch."
"She gave me enough." The memory of her body against mine, the way her breath had caught at my words. "She's hiding something, Marco. Something big."
"The Miami connection?"
"More than that." I finally looked at him. "Where are we on the background investigation?"
"Still digging. The boyfriend story is definitely false—we confirmed that. Previous employment checks out on paper, but I'm verifying with former colleagues." He paused. "You really think she's more than just the woman from Miami?"
I thought about the way she'd moved through this event—competent, professional, handling everything I'd thrown at her. Including me.
"I think Isla Quinn walked into my life for a reason," I said. "And I'm going to find out what it is."
I drained the whiskey and set the empty glass on a passing tray. "I need to go."
“Already? You've barely been here two hours.”
"I've shown my face. Made the necessary connections." My eyes found Isla again, gathering her things near the coat check. "That's enough."
I crossed the room, ignoring the attempts to engage me in conversation. When I reached her, she was slipping her phone into her clutch.
"I'll drive you home," I said.
She startled. "That's not necessary. I can get a cab."
"It's after nine. I'm leaving anyway." I placed my hand at the small of her back again, guiding her toward the exit. "Consider it a professional courtesy."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
She hesitated. "I have prior commitments."
"Cancel them."
"Not everything in my life revolves around you, Cassian." Her voice hardened. "I said no."
For a moment, something flickered in my eyes—surprise, perhaps, or respect. Then I stepped back, hands raised slightly in surrender.
"Understood." My voice was cool, professional. "Then I'll wait with you until your cab arrives."
"That's not—"
"Non-negotiable." I glanced toward the exit, where a group of drunk investors was loudly saying their goodbyes. "Calabrese is still here. I'm not leaving you alone in this lobby."
She opened her mouth to argue, then caught sight of Vincent Calabrese near the bar, his eyes tracking her across the room.
"Fine," she said. "You can wait with me."
We moved toward the exit in tense silence. The valet stand was busy, a line of guests waiting for cars. She pulled out her phone to call a cab.
"Problem?" I asked, though my tone suggested I already knew.
"The cab wait is—" she sighed. "Long."
"My car is being brought here now. The offer stands, Isla. No strings. No expectations. Just a ride home because it's late and I'm going your direction anyway."
She looked at her phone, then at Calabrese, who'd moved closer to the exit. Then at me. I watched her with what I hoped was an infuriatingly patient expression.
"Your direction?" she challenged. "You don't even know where I live."
"Brooklyn. Prospect Heights area." At her startled expression, I added, "It's on your employment paperwork. And yes, I'm going that direction—I have a meeting in Red Hook tomorrow morning.
It was a lie. But Calabrese was definitely walking toward us now.
"Fine," she said, sounding defeated. "But this doesn't change anything."
"Wouldn't dream of it." I placed my hand on the small of her back—lighter this time, not possessive—and guided her toward the car.
Outside, the night air was cool against my face. The valet brought my Aston Martin around, and I opened the passenger door for her. She hesitated.
She slid into the passenger seat with one last glance toward Calabrese, who was still watching from the lobby.
Whatever hesitation she'd had about accepting my offer had been overridden by the very real threat of his attention.
I closed her door and walked around to the driver's side, giving myself a moment to regain control.
This woman affected me in ways I couldn't explain—ways I didn't like.
The drive was silent at first. I could feel her tension, see her fingers twisting in her lap.
"Where am I taking you?" I asked finally.
"Do you know the address? In Brooklyn?"
I nodded, adjusting our route. "Not what I would have expected."
"What did you expect?"
"Someone with your skills? Tribeca. Maybe the Village." I glanced at her. "Brooklyn is… domestic."
Her shoulders stiffened. "It's affordable and safe."
"Two priorities I understand." I turned onto Central Park West, the trees casting shadows across the windshield. "What else do you prioritize, Isla Quinn?"
"Privacy," she said pointedly.
I laughed. "Fair enough."
When we reached her building, I pulled to the curb and cut the engine. An older brownstone, well-maintained but nothing extravagant. I got out and walked around to open her door, but she was already standing on the sidewalk.
She paused before walking away, her hand still on the car door. I stood there, my own hand on the frame, waiting. The streetlight caught the gold flecks in her eyes, and for a moment, we just looked at each other.
"What are we doing?" she finally asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
I studied her face, the vulnerability there surprising me. "Do you want me to walk away?"
Her answer was unexpected. She grabbed my collar and pulled me down, her lips crashing into mine with a desperation that matched the hunger I'd been fighting. I backed her into the car door, my hands finding her waist, feeling the silk of her dress and the warmth beneath it.
"You drive me insane," she gasped when we broke apart.
"Good," I growled, my mouth at her neck. "Because I haven't stopped thinking about you since the first interview."
Her fingers tangled in my hair, pulling me back to her mouth. I kissed her deeply, tasting champagne and that familiar sweetness I remembered from Miami. When she moaned against my lips—the same sound she'd made three years ago—I nearly lost control.
"We're not doing this in a parking lot," I muttered, forcing myself to pull back.
She blinked, reality returning to her eyes. For a moment, I thought she'd refuse, but then she nodded.
I opened the passenger door, helping her back into the car. This time, when she slid into the seat, there was no hesitation. No practical excuses about Calabrese or cab waits. Just want, raw and undeniable.
I closed her door and walked around to the driver's side, my hands gripping the wheel harder than necessary as I started the engine.
"My place," I said. Not a question.
"Yes." Her voice was breathless. "Your place."
The ride to my penthouse was electric. Our hands brushed on the console between us, but neither of us reached to hold. The tension built with each mile, with each red light, with each stolen glance.
I stood in the dimly lit penthouse, the marble walls gleaming under the soft glow of the chandelier. The air was thick with anticipation, a tension that had been building for three long years.
My heart pounded in my chest as I heard the click of the door, the sound echoing in the vast space.
As she stepped into the room, her presence filled the space, her curvy figure accentuated by the tight dress she wore.
Her dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her skin glowed in the soft light.
I felt a surge of desire mixed with a hint of anger.
Anger at myself for letting her go, for not recognizing her sooner.
But mostly, I felt an overwhelming need to have her, to reclaim what we had shared that one unforgettable night.
"Isla," I said, my voice deep and commanding, yet laced with a vulnerability I rarely allowed anyone to see. She turned, her eyes meeting mine, and for a moment, time stood still. The air crackled with the electricity of our unspoken connection.
"Cassian," she whispered, her voice soft yet steady.
I could see the conflict in her eyes—the weight of whatever she was hiding. And I felt my own conflict: should I tell her I knew? That I'd known who she was for weeks? That I'd been waiting for her to tell me the truth?.
We were two people bound by a night of passion, separated by almost three years and the lies she'd told to get close to me again.
I took a step toward her, my movements deliberate, my eyes never leaving hers.
"You've been avoiding me," I stated, more than asked.
She bit her lip, her gaze dropping to the floor, and I knew I was right. "Why?"
"It's complicated," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
I closed the distance between us, my hand reaching out to tilt her chin up, forcing her to meet my gaze.
"Nothing is complicated between us, Isla," I said, my voice firm. "Not anymore."
Her breath hitched as I leaned in, my lips brushing against hers. It was a gentle touch, a question, and an answer all at once. She didn't pull away, and I took that as my invitation.
My hands slid around to her back, finding the zipper of that burgundy silk dress that had been taunting me all evening.
I pulled it down slowly, watching the fabric loosen and fall away from her body.
The dress slipped from her shoulders, the silk cascading down to pool at her feet like spilled wine.
No bra. Just bare skin and a scrap of lace at her hips.
I stepped back for a moment, drinking in the sight of her. Three years hadn't dulled my memory of this body, but seeing it again—real, present, mine—was something else entirely.