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"Have you hired a private investigator yet?" he asks.

"Yeah."

He smirks. "Tell me what you find. She sounds like an interesting person."

"You're insufferable."

"I love you, too."

We say goodbye and hang up.

I click my pen against the desk. The private investigator I hired is from Singapore. He'll have a report to me in a few hours.I should get some sleep, but instead, I keep refreshing my email folder every five minutes.

It doesn't help that her room is just a few feet away. It would be so easy to slip inside and watch her sleep.

At around five in the morning, there's a new email in my inbox.

It's from the PI.

As I read through the password-encrypted document, I learn that Emma Turner is far more complex than I could have ever imagined.

11

EMMA

The late-night encounter with Klaus Sinclair feels like something out of a dream.

I play the moment in my head over and over again until I fall asleep. It's not until I wake up the following morning that I remember the email sitting in my inbox.

I should delete it for my peace of mind, but I never do. I collect them as evidence in case I ever need them.

Before the fear can paralyze me, I get out of bed.

I take deep breaths and focus on the golden sunlight slicing through the gaps between the curtains. I go through my usual routine—ten minutes of yoga, brushing my teeth, a large glass of water, and then a shower.

Half an hour later, I'm in much better spirits.

I stand in front of the closet with a soft towel wrapped around my body. My fingers linger over the sensible blouse and black pants. Something in me rebels against it. The darkness in my body has dissipated now, replaced by something light and bubbly.

A voice in my head insists that looking presentable isn't enough. I want to lookdecadentfor Klaus Sinclair.

Instead of casting away the intrusive thought, I listen to it.

My heels click against the veined marble as I descend the staircase.

When I reach the dining area, I find that everyone is already here. Even Mr. Sinclair.

"Good morning," I say softly, tucking my hair behind my ear. Out of nowhere, I feel self-conscious.

"Miss Emma," James says, surprise lighting up his face.

His sister glances up at me, her mouth twitching in a half-hearted acknowledgment. Her uncle, on the other hand, gives me his complete, undivided attention.

His eyes flick down the length of my body.

Delicious fire erupts across my skin.

I'm wearing a little tweed skirt that skims the tops of my thighs. I paired it with a black turtleneck that hugs my curves. Sheer black stockings cover my thighs, but the skirt is still a little too short.