Dinner at the high-end steakhouse was an exercise in extreme tension—at least for Killian. While the ambiance was soft and the wine was flowing, Killian sat as rigid as a statue, his dark eyes like flint as they scanned the room. Every time a waiter lingered a second too long or a man at a nearby table glanced toward their booth, Killian’s jaw tightened.
Raya watched him, a secret, playful smile tugging at her lips. She reached under the table, grabbing his large, calloused hand and lightly massaging his palm with her thumb. She was laughing inside at the sight; here was this powerful, forty-eight-year-old man, a titan of industry, acting like a pouty, possessive teenager because of a little red silk.
"Relax," she whispered, leaning closer so her perfume could hit him. "I'm right here."
