Biker's Temptation:Owned by Knox Vance

The Ministry of Corporate Affairs doesn’t send warnings. We send auditors. And I was the one they sent to Vance Industries. My name was on the clipboard shaking in my hands: _Aria Wanjiru, Compliance Division_. Twenty-six, three degrees, and a government badge that suddenly felt like a toy gun walking into a warzone. Vance Industries HQ sat in Upper Hill like a black glass knife. Thirty floors of legitimate wheat exports, according to the paperwork. According to the three anonymous tips on my desk, it was the front for the King of Nairobi. Knox Vance. CEO by day. Crime lord by rumor. The elevator dinged on the 30th floor. The doors opened to silence. No receptionist. No secretary. Just a wall of tinted glass and the smell of tobacco and something metallic. Blood? Gasoline? My heels clicked across marble that cost more than my yearly salary. His office door was open. He was waiting. Knox Vance didn’t look up when I entered. He was standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows, back to me, cigarette burning between fingers covered in scars and silver rings. Black suit, no tie. The kind of shoulders that stretched fabric and broke rules. His hair was dark, too long, like he couldn’t be bothered with barbers or laws. Every crime report I’d read said the same thing: _6’2”, tattooed, dangerous_. They forgot to mention beautiful. Terrifying, but beautiful. “You’re late, sweetheart,” he said to the Nairobi skyline. His voice was gravel and sin. Low enough that I felt it in my ribs. “I’m exactly on time, Mr. Vance.” I clutched my clipboard. _Be capable. Be professional._ “The Ministry scheduled this compliance audit for 9:00 AM. It’s 9:00 AM.” Now he turned. And I forgot how to breathe. Crime reports don’t capture eyes. His were gray like a storm over the Indian Ocean. Cold. Assessing. They dragged down my navy blazer, my pencil skirt, my legs that suddenly didn’t feel steady. A scar cut through his left eyebrow. His jaw was shadowed with stubble. His mouth... His mouth quirked. “Ministry sends pretty things now?” Heat slammed into my cheeks. “The Ministry sends _competent_ things, Mr. Vance. I’m here about the discrepancies in your Q3 wheat shipments.” He stepped away from the window. Every movement was deliberate. Predatory. A man who owned rooms without speaking. He didn’t sit. He perched on the edge of his desk, ankles crossed, caging me in with just his presence. “Discrepancies.” He tasted the word. “You mean the three containers that vanished from Mombasa Port?” My mouth went dry. That wasn’t in the public filing. That was in the _sealed_ report on my desk. “How do you—” “I know everything that moves in my city, Aria.” He said my name like he’d already owned it. I forced my spine straight. _Capable. Prosecutor. You have the power here._ “Then you know why I’m here. Three containers of ‘wheat’ left port. They never reached the silos. But your paperwork says they did. So either Vance Industries has magic grain...” “Or?” He leaned forward. Close enough that I smelled him: tobacco, leather, and something dark I couldn’t name. “Or you’re lying to the government.” The silence after was lethal. Then he laughed. Not nice. The sound scraped down my spine and settled low in my belly. “Pretty, capable, _and_ brave.” He plucked the cigarette from his mouth, crushed it out on a crystal ashtray already full of dead soldiers. “Most auditors take one look at me and piss themselves. You’re threatening to prosecute me.” “It’s not a threat, Mr. Vance. It’s my job.” He stood in one fluid motion. Too close. I had to tip my head back to hold his gaze. Up close, the scar on his eyebrow was jagged. A knife fight. The tattoos on his neck disappeared under his collar. A king’s brand? A killer’s tally? “My job,” he murmured, “is to decide if you walk out of here as an enemy...” His finger lifted. Didn’t touch me. Just hovered an inch from my jaw, so close I felt the heat of it. “...or as something else.” My pulse jumped. Traitor. “I’m not for sale, Mr. Vance.” “No?” His eyes dropped to my mouth. “Everything’s for sale in Nairobi, sweetheart. Even Ministry auditors with morals.” He stepped back before I could answer. Before I could slap him or, God help me, lean in. He walked around his desk, opened a drawer, and tossed a thick file onto the glass. “Q3 shipping manifests. Warehouse logs. Port signatures. Everything you asked for.” I blinked. That was... easy. Too easy. I flipped open the file. The paperwork was pristine. Perfect. Too perfect. Wheat. Wheat. More wheat. Signed, stamped, Ministry-approved. It was a lie printed in expensive ink. “This doesn’t explain the missing containers.” “Maybe you should check my warehouses then.” He sat now, reclining in his leather chair like a throne. A king granting audience. “Westlands. Industrial Area. Bring your badge. Bring your bravery.” It was a trap. Obviously. “Alone?” His smile was all teeth. “Afraid of the dark, Prosecutor?” “I’m not a prosecutor.” “Liar.” He steepled his fingers, silver rings glinting. “You’ve got that look. The one that says you’d love to put me in cuffs.” _God, yes._ “7 PM,” he continued. “I’ll send a car. Or you can keep playing with fake paperwork while real shipments burn.” He knew. He _knew_ about the fire at the docks last night. I snapped the file shut. “If I find what I think I’ll find—” “You’ll what?” He stood again, planting both hands on the desk and leaning across it. Inches away. “Arrest me, Aria? In my city? With my judges?” He was so close I saw the flecks of darker gray in his eyes. So close his breath stirred the hair at my temple. “Try it,” he whispered. It wasn’t a challenge. It was a promise. I turned on my heel before I did something stupid. Like touch him. Like believe him. His voice followed me to the door. “Wear something you can run in, sweetheart. Warehouse floors are hell on heels.” I didn’t slam the door. Prosecutors don’t slam doors. But my hands were shaking when the elevator doors closed. Three containers of wheat. Three missing shipments. One King of Nairobi who looked at me like he wanted to devour me or destroy me. Maybe both. My phone buzzed. Unknown number. _7 PM. Black SUV. Don’t be late twice. – K_ I deleted the message. Then I checked the time. 8 hours until I walked into his trap. 8 hours until I saw if Knox Vance was a CEO... or a crime scene. ---