Tempting the Devil

Chapter3

The car pulled up to the private hangar just before nine.

Isabella Cruz stepped out into the brisk morning air, clutching her leather bag to her side as if it might shield her. Jet fuel hung thick in the air, mingling with the distant roar of engines and the low rumble of mechanics moving equipment.

The private jet gleamed on the tarmac, sleek and predatory, a symbol of wealth so excessive it bordered on obscene. For a moment, Isabella simply stared at it, her pulse quickening with dread. This wasn’t just a plane—it was Adrian Blackwell’s kingdom in the sky.

Her editor’s words echoed in her mind: Get close to him. Two weeks. No excuses.

She could do this. She had to do this. Her career was on the line.

“Miss Cruz.”

The deep, velvety voice made her spin.

Adrian was already there, striding toward her with the kind of effortless power that made strangers step aside without realizing why. Today he wore a navy suit that looked like it had been tailored by gods. His tie was dark silk, his hair immaculately styled, and his expression one of cool amusement.

“You’re punctual,” he said, glancing at his watch as though it were remarkable.

“I don’t like wasting time,” she replied, lifting her chin. “Especially not mine.”

His lips curved, the barest hint of a smirk. “Punctuality. Sharp tongue. Fire in the eyes. You’re already more interesting than ninety percent of the people I’m forced to interact with.”

“Congratulations on your low standards,” she shot back, marching toward the jet.

His chuckle followed her up the stairs.

Inside, the jet was all soft leather and understated luxury—cream seats wide enough to curl up in, polished wood gleaming, a faint scent of expensive cologne and champagne lingering in the air. It wasn’t just a plane. It was a declaration: Adrian Blackwell was above the rest of the world. Literally.

Isabella’s gaze darted to the farthest seat from his, but by the time she dropped her bag there, Adrian was already handing his jacket to a steward and sliding into the seat directly beside her.

Her stomach dropped. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m always serious.” He buckled his belt with slow, deliberate movements. “Would you rather sit on my lap?”

Her cheeks went hot. “I’d rather jump out mid-flight.”

“Tempting.” His eyes glittered with something dangerous. “Though I’d recommend waiting until we’re over the ocean. Much more dramatic.”

She gritted her teeth and strapped herself in. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet you’re here.”

The engines roared to life before she could retort, pressing her back into the seat as the jet lifted off the ground. Isabella’s fingers curled into the armrests, her knuckles whitening despite her best efforts to stay composed.

Adrian’s voice broke through the hum of the cabin. “Nervous?”

“Hardly.”

“Liar.” His gaze dropped to her white-knuckled grip. “Relax, Miss Cruz. I assure you, I don’t crash.”

“I don’t believe in guarantees,” she muttered, staring out the window as the city shrank below them.

“You believe in control,” he countered. “Just like me.”

The words sent an unexpected ripple through her. She refused to acknowledge it.

Hours passed, though time seemed distorted inside the cocoon of the jet. Adrian worked seamlessly—fielding calls, dictating rapid orders, scanning reports. Isabella scribbled in her notebook, capturing his every word, every sharp-edged command.

And yet, the more she listened, the more she begrudgingly noticed something else.

He wasn’t just ruthless. He was brilliant. He anticipated problems before anyone else even sensed them, dismissed weak arguments with lethal efficiency, spun possibilities into certainties with frightening ease. CEOs caved, board members backpedaled, entire strategies shifted around his will.

It was terrifying. And it was magnetic.

When she realized her pen had stopped moving, she cursed under her breath and forced herself back to work.

Adrian noticed, of course. He always noticed. “Enjoying the view?” he asked without looking up from his tablet.

“I’m collecting evidence,” she shot back.

“Evidence that I’m exceptional?”

“Evidence that you manipulate everything you touch.”

At that, he finally turned, his gaze locking onto hers. The smile that curved his mouth was slow and sharp. “Including you?”

Her pen cracked in her hand. Ink bloomed across her palm.

Adrian chuckled, low and unbothered.

The jet landed smoothly in Boston, but Isabella’s nerves were frayed. She’d spent the flight oscillating between fury, begrudging fascination, and the unsettling heat of awareness whenever his eyes lingered on her too long.

The car waiting on the tarmac swept them straight to a skyscraper downtown. For the next six hours, she shadowed him through meetings that blurred together in a haze of ruthless negotiations. She watched him dominate boardrooms, cut deals with surgical precision, and leave a trail of dazed executives in his wake.

By the time evening rolled around, her hand ached from writing. Her brain buzzed from the sheer intensity of him.

And still, he didn’t stop.

“We’ll check in, then dinner,” he said as the car rolled to a stop in front of a gleaming hotel that bore his name in gold.

“Check in separately,” she corrected quickly.

“Of course.” His tone was silky, too silky. “Two bedrooms.”

Relief flickered through her—until he added, “In one suite.”

She froze on the sidewalk. “Excuse me?”

“Security prefers it that way.” His mouth curved. “Or perhaps it’s me who prefers it. Semantics.”

Her voice rose. “I am not sharing a suite with you.”

“You are,” he said simply, striding through the revolving doors. “Unless you’d rather sleep on the street. Up to you.”

Fury propelled her after him, into a lobby that looked like a palace. Chandeliers sparkled overhead, marble floors gleamed, and the staff bowed as Adrian Blackwell passed. Isabella’s anger burned hotter in such surroundings, because of course he owned all this. Of course he would.

The elevator ride to the penthouse was silent but electric. Their reflections stared back at them in the gilded walls: her jaw set, his expression calm but predatory, as though he were already envisioning her reaction when the suite door opened.

And when it did, when she stepped into a space that was less hotel and more palace, her breath caught despite herself.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city skyline. Velvet sofas sprawled across a massive living space. A dining table large enough for a king’s court gleamed under a chandelier. Two doors branched off to separate bedrooms, but there was no mistaking the intimacy of shared space.

Her stomach twisted. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Adrian leaned close, his voice brushing her ear. “Two weeks, Miss Cruz. Two bedrooms. One suite. Let’s see how long your fire lasts.”

She spun on him, ready to snap—but stopped when she saw the gleam in his eyes. Not just amusement. Hunger. Interest.

Danger.

Adrian set his phone on the marble console and loosened his tie, as though he’d just walked into his private residence instead of a hotel suite.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he said smoothly. “I’ll have dinner sent up.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Everyone’s hungry.” His eyes swept over her with deliberate slowness. “Some just don’t admit what they crave.”

Her pulse stuttered. “You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re shaking,” he murmured.

“I am not—” She stopped when she realized her hand still clutched her bag so tightly the leather bit into her palm. Heat rushed to her face, but she forced her expression into icy neutrality. “I’m here for work. Don’t flatter yourself.”

He moved closer, each step unhurried, until the space between them thinned to a breath. “Then work,” he said softly. “But don’t pretend you don’t feel this.”

Her breath hitched, betraying her. His cologne surrounded her—smoky, warm, intoxicating. For one dangerous moment, her body leaned toward him before her brain snapped her back.

She spun away, heading for the nearest bedroom. “I’m taking this one.”

His chuckle followed her, low and pleased, like a predator watching its prey dart into a corner. “Sleep well, Miss Cruz. Tomorrow, we play harder.”

She slammed the door behind her and pressed her back against it, chest heaving.

The room was opulent—plush bed, velvet curtains, a balcony overlooking the glittering city. But Isabella barely noticed. All she could think about was the way her body had betrayed her, the way her pulse had raced under his gaze, the way it had felt standing so close she could see the darker ring around his steel-gray irises.

She hated him. She wanted him. She hated herself for wanting him.

Isabella threw her bag onto the bed and paced, muttering under her breath. Two weeks. Just two weeks. You can outlast him. You can keep your distance.

But deep down, she knew Adrian Blackwell wasn’t the kind of man anyone kept their distance from. He drew people in, bent them to his will, consumed them whole.

And for the first time, she wasn’t sure if she could resist the pull.

Meanwhile, in his room across the suite, Adrian stood at the window with a glass of whiskey in hand, his tie discarded, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar.

Isabella Cruz was proving even more intriguing than he’d expected. She fought him at every turn, her fire brighter than anyone else’s. Most people bored him within hours. But her? He could already taste the war brewing between them.

He smiled to himself, savoring the faint echo of her defiance.

Two weeks, he thought.

Two weeks to make her break.