Tempting the Devil

Chapter4

Isabella woke to the faint glow of dawn slipping between velvet curtains. For a moment, disorientation tangled her thoughts—the plush bedding, the faint hum of the city below, the unfamiliar silence. Then it hit her: the suite.

The suite she was sharing with Adrian Blackwell.

She groaned into the pillow, her body still buzzing with restless energy after the night before. She’d tossed and turned, every sound magnified—the low murmur of his voice through the wall as he’d taken a call, the clink of glass when he poured himself a drink, even the sound of water running in his shower. All reminders that he was only a few steps away.

And worse, her dreams had been full of him. Hands pinning her against velvet walls, his mouth trailing fire down her throat, his voice whispering things that made her body ache. She’d woken flushed and furious with herself.

Pulling herself together, Isabella dragged on a fitted blouse and pencil skirt, armor against the day. She wasn’t going to let him see weakness. Not again.

When she emerged into the living room, he was already there—of course he was—lounging on the sofa with a cup of coffee, dressed in a crisp white shirt with his tie undone, collar open.

Her throat went dry.

“Good morning, Miss Cruz,” he drawled, as if they were lovers waking in the same bed.

She shot him a glare and stalked toward the coffeemaker. “Don’t start.”

“I haven’t even had my second cup yet.” He sipped, watching her over the rim. “But by all means, keep glaring at me like that. It’s…stimulating.”

Her hand jerked on the handle, nearly spilling coffee. “You’re insufferable.”

He set his cup down, leaning back, all effortless power. “Careful. Spend enough mornings with me and you might find yourself getting used to it.”

She turned sharply, cup in hand. “This isn’t a honeymoon, Blackwell. It’s work. I’m shadowing you, remember?”

His smile was slow, dangerous. “Oh, I remember. I just think you’re underestimating how…intimate work can be when it’s done properly.”

Heat climbed her neck, but she refused to bite. Instead, she sat opposite him, flipping open her notebook. “What’s on the schedule?”

“Meetings with the Boston board. A luncheon. A dinner with investors. You’ll have plenty to scribble about.” His gaze flicked over her blouse, lingering. “Though I imagine you’ll be more distracting than my investors.”

She tightened her grip on the pen until it nearly snapped. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m—” She cut herself off, cheeks burning.

He leaned forward, voice dropping. “Like you’re already mine?”

Her breath hitched. The air thickened, charged, her heart thudding traitorously fast. For a terrifying second, she thought he might close the distance. That she might let him.

The knock on the suite door shattered it.

She shot to her feet, nearly spilling her coffee. Adrian didn’t move, but his smile deepened like he’d won something.

The interruption was room service—breakfast. Adrian signed without glancing at the bill, then gestured for her to eat. She tried to focus on the food, but her appetite was nonexistent.

The day blurred into a whirlwind of power plays.

Their first meeting was at the top of a gleaming tower downtown, the Boston board seated around a long mahogany table. Isabella stood slightly behind Adrian, notebook in hand, determined to look like a professional observer.

It didn’t last.

The room shifted around him. Executives who had entered stiff and guarded relaxed in his presence, their tones changing, their eyes sharpening with eagerness. Adrian commanded attention without raising his voice, without so much as a gesture out of place. When he spoke, the board leaned forward; when he paused, they waited.

Isabella scribbled furiously. Devil in the boardroom, she wrote in the margins. But another thought snuck in, unwelcome: This is what power looks like when it’s alive.

And she hated that part of her admired it.

At the luncheon, it was more of the same. Adrian at the head of the table, his deep laugh punctuating strategic charm. Isabella watched how easily he adapted—sharp with the older men, witty with the younger, attentive with the few women scattered among the executives. Every move was calculated, and yet it looked effortless.

At one point, a woman leaned too close, touching his arm, and something ugly twisted in Isabella’s chest. She scribbled furiously in her notes to distract herself, only to realize she’d written his name three times across the page.

Dinner was worse. The investors adored him, hung on every word. And Isabella, exhausted, caught herself staring—not just at his mouth when he smiled, but at the rare flicker of something almost genuine in his eyes when the topic veered toward projects that mattered to him.

She wanted to believe it was an act. But her gut told her it wasn’t entirely.

By the time they returned to the suite, she was frayed. She kicked off her heels and collapsed onto the velvet sofa, massaging her aching feet.

Adrian loosened his tie across from her, watching with wolfish amusement. “Long day?”

“You don’t get tired, do you?” she muttered.

“I thrive under pressure.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You? You look like you’re about to break.”

She shot him a glare. “I don’t break.”

His smile was molten. “We’ll see.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy and charged. The city glittered beyond the windows, a thousand lights reflecting off glass.

And then, too suddenly, he was beside her. His cologne wrapped around her, his presence overwhelming.

Her breath caught. “What are you doing?”

“Testing something.” His voice was low, rougher now.

His hand lifted, slow enough for her to stop him, to push him away. But she didn’t. His knuckles brushed her jaw, feather-light. She shivered, hating herself for it.

Their eyes locked.

The space between them narrowed, unbearably. She could feel the heat of him, the promise in the air. If he kissed her now—God help her—she might not stop him.

But at the last second, he pulled back.

Her lungs emptied in a rush she didn’t understand. Relief. Disappointment. Fury.

He stood, straightening his shirt as if nothing had happened. “Get some rest, Miss Cruz. Tomorrow’s another long day.”

And then he disappeared into his room, leaving her trembling on the sofa, heart racing, lips aching with the ghost of something that had almost been.

Alone in the silence, Isabella pressed her palms to her face. She hated him. She hated how he made her feel. And yet, beneath the anger, her body still hummed, restless, traitorous.

She rose and paced the length of the living room, glaring out at the city lights. Boston glittered back at her, uncaring, as if mocking her turmoil.

“Two weeks,” she whispered to herself. “You just have to survive two weeks.”

But even as she said it, she knew she was lying. Adrian Blackwell wasn’t the kind of man a woman survived. He was the kind that consumed.

And she was already burning.