The penthouse was quiet, save for the hum of the central air and the occasional clink of ice in a glass. Mike stood by the minibar in a dark T-shirt and slacks, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, a half-empty glass of scotch in hand.
The veins on his forearms bulged with tension, each movement deliberate, laced with silent frustration. His hair was slightly tousled from running his fingers through it too many times. He looked like trouble in human form—too rich, too powerful, too untamed.
And Isla couldn’t look away.
She leaned against the velvet armchair in his room—the room Isabella had claimed for her son, and now, for her. Her long legs crossed deliberately, the silk robe she wore riding up her thighs in calculated seduction.
"So," she purred, her voice warm honey with a blade undern
