Page 4 of His Obsession (Mafia Masters #1)

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ISOLDE

S hadows stretched and fractured, dancing on the Fitzwilliam Foundation’s walls, lending the pristine room an illusion of chaos. Isolde sat at her desk, back straight and shoulders tense, her fingers brushing lightly over the surface of a file. She tried to ground herself in the familiar rhythm of work, but the man seated across from her disrupted all semblance of calm.

Callum Kavanagh exuded a quiet, deliberate menace, his dark gaze fixed on her as though she were prey. The afternoon light highlighted the silver threads woven into his black suit, the fabric so sharp and precise it looked sculpted to his frame. He leaned back in his chair, one arm draped casually along the side, as if he owned not just the room but the world outside it.

“This meeting,” Isolde began, her voice steadier than she expected, though her hands tightened around the file to keep them from trembling, “is completely unnecessary, Mr. Kavanagh. The donation has already been accepted, and all documentation was signed yesterday. I’m not sure why you felt the need to request this… follow-up.”

Callum grinned, his lips curling with amusement. “A man can’t follow up on a sizable investment? It’s good business sense, Ms. Fitzwilliam. But I suspect you already know that.”

Heat crept up her neck despite her best efforts to remain unaffected. “The foundation appreciates your employer’s generosity, but our allocations are non-negotiable. We’ll distribute the funds as we see fit.”

He chuckled softly, the sound rolling through the room and sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. “And I’m sure you’ll do an admirable job. Still, my employer has a keen interest in ensuring those funds are used… effectively.”

Isolde bristled, her eyes narrowing. “Are you suggesting the foundation would mismanage them?”

“Not at all,” he said smoothly, leaning forward now, his elbows resting on his knees. The movement drew him closer, close enough that she caught the faint scent of cedarwood and smoke. His voice dropped, low and intimate. “I’m simply reminding you that trust is earned, not given.”

The sound of her assistant’s heels clicking down the hallway outside echoed through the office, each sharp tap a counterpoint to the erratic rhythm of her pulse. She focused on the noise, willing herself to find some semblance of control.

“You’ve made your point, Mr. Kavanagh,” she said, her voice clipped as she tried to steer the conversation back to safer territory. “The funds are secure, and you can rest assured they’ll be put to good use.”

He leaned back again, his eyes never leaving hers, the weight of his gaze as tangible as a hand on her skin. “Good use, indeed. But let’s not pretend you don’t understand why I’m here, Isolde.”

Her breath caught at the way he said her name—low, deliberate, like a caress. She tightened her grip on the file in front of her, as if it could serve as a barrier between them.

“I don’t see the purpose of continuing this conversation,” she said firmly, though her voice lacked the force she intended.

Callum tilted his head, the predatory gleam in his eyes intensifying. “The purpose, Ms. Fitzwilliam, is to establish a relationship. My employer isn’t just making a larger than normal donation. This is an investment. And investments require… oversight.”

Her cheeks flushed, a mix of anger and something she couldn’t name simmering beneath the surface. “The foundation doesn’t answer to private donors, no matter how large the contribution. We remain autonomous.”

“Autonomy,” he mused, his tone laced with mockery. “An admirable principle. But principles are expensive, aren’t they? And I’d wager that your foundation could do a hell of a lot more with continued support from the O’Neill organization. Or am I wrong?”

She opened her mouth to argue, but the words caught in her throat. He wasn’t wrong, and she was sure he knew it. The donation was a lifeline, and the prospect of future contributions was impossible to ignore.

Her silence must have spoken volumes because his smile deepened, his confidence pressing against her like a physical weight. “That’s what I thought,” he murmured.

The sound of her assistant moving further away left the office cloaked in an oppressive silence. Isolde felt the walls closing in, as if Callum’s presence consumed every inch of the room.

“I still don’t see why this required a private meeting,” she said, her voice quieter now, betraying the cracks in her resolve.

His gaze flicked to her hands, still clutching the file, then back to her face. “Because it’s easier to talk freely when we’re not surrounded by watchful eyes. You don’t strike me as the type who likes being backed into a corner, Isolde. But here we are.”

Her skin prickled under his scrutiny, heat pooling low in her belly despite the fear she couldn’t entirely shake. She hated how he unraveled her so easily, how the lines between defiance and something darker blurred in his presence.

“Mr. Kavanagh,” she began, her tone icy in an effort to mask her unease, “I’d appreciate it if you kept our interactions strictly professional from now on. There’s no need for?—”

“For what?” he interrupted, his voice silken. “Private meetings? Direct conversations? Or are you more concerned about the feeling between us in this room?”

Her cheeks burned, and her eyes flashed. “There is no feeling between us, in this or any other room. There is only your unwelcome presence.”

His laughter was low and intimate, curling around her like smoke. “Unwelcome, is it? Tell me, love, is that why your breath hitches every time I get close? Or why your skin flushes when I look at you?”

He crossed the room, sliding a file across the desk toward her, his fingers brushing hers briefly. The contact was electric, sending a sharp jolt up her arm that made her breath hitch. Isolde tried to ignore the reaction, but it was impossible not to feel the gravity of his touch—solid, deliberate, and far too intimate.

She pulled her hand back quickly, clutching the file like a lifeline. “I will not allow a repeat of last night,” she said sharply, keeping her voice firm as she met his gaze.

Callum’s grin widened, and he leaned slightly closer, the predator in him clearly enjoying her discomfort. “I agree,” he murmured, his voice low and dark, like a storm rolling in. “Next time, you won’t be running out on me, leaving me with no relief. If you strike me again, love, I’ll put you over my knee for what I suspect is some much-needed discipline. And once I’m done with that…” His eyes flicked to her mouth, his gaze darkening. “…we’ll find something better to do with that sharp tongue of yours. Something that’ll leave you much more agreeable.”

Her stomach flipped at the quiet, confident threat, a mix of shock and anger flaring in her chest. She shot up from her chair, the legs scraping against the floor as she moved to put some distance between them.

“You are insufferable,” she hissed, her cheeks flaming. “Do you really think I’d let you?—”

“Let me?” he interrupted, his smile giving way to something sharper, more dangerous. “That’s cute, Isolde. But let’s not pretend you didn’t enjoy last night—at least the parts that you allowed yourself to. You remember how my hand felt on you, don’t you? How my body pressed against yours.”

Her throat tightened, and she cursed inwardly at the memories his words conjured. She had been trying to forget—the heat of his hand on her ass, the hard line of his body against hers—but now the sensations flooded back, vivid and unavoidable.

“You’re delusional,” she snapped, gripping the edge of her desk to steady herself.

“Am I?” Callum said smoothly, stepping around the desk and closing the distance between them. She stiffened but held her ground, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her retreat.

Her heart raced as he leaned in, his breath brushing against her cheek, warm and teasing. “Tell me, love, why are you blushing?”

“Because you’re infuriating,” she shot back, her voice trembling slightly despite her best efforts.

He chuckled, the sound low and rich, and Isolde hated the way it sent a ripple of heat through her. “Careful, Isolde. You’re starting to sound like you care.”

Her hand clenched into a fist, but she forced herself to take a steadying breath, determined not to let him bait her. “This meeting is over,” she said, her voice cold.

“Not yet,” he replied, stepping back just enough to give her space to breathe. His keen eyes glittered with amusement and something more dangerous as he folded his arms. “There’s one more thing we need to discuss.”

“What now?” she asked, exasperated.

He tilted his head slightly, his expression softening, though it did little to lessen the intensity of his gaze. “I owe you an apology,” he said.

The unexpected statement caught her off guard. “An apology?”

“I underestimated you,” he said, his tone laced with a grudging respect. “I assumed you were just another sheltered heiress playing at charity work. But I’ve done my research, love. The foundation has flourished under your leadership, but I wonder what your uptight donors would say if they knew you had guest privileges at Baker Street in London?”

Her breath caught, her mind scrambling for a response. Baker Street was a discreet, exclusive club, one where anonymity and trust were paramount. The fact that Callum knew about her connection to it sent a chill racing down her spine.

“How do you know about my privileges at Baker Street?” she demanded, her voice sharper than she intended.

His smile returned, though it was softer this time, almost appreciative. “I make it my business to know things. Especially about people who interest me.”

Isolde’s pulse hammered in her ears. “I don’t interest you.”

“You interest me more than you should,” he said simply, the honesty in his tone catching her off guard. “And that’s why you should be careful, Isolde. Because the more I learn about you, the more I want to see how far you’ll let me push you.”

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and dangerous. She wanted to tell him to leave, to slam the door on whatever game he thought he was playing. But the part of her that should have been running screamed at her to stay, to stand her ground.

“You don’t scare me,” she said finally, though her voice faltered at the end.

“Don’t I?” Callum asked, his voice soft but laced with steel. He stepped closer again, and Isolde’s breath hitched as the heat of his body radiated against hers. “Maybe you should be scared, love. Or maybe you should be honest with yourself about why you’re not. Fear can be, after all, something of an aphrodisiac.”

Before she could respond, the door to her office creaked open slightly, and her assistant poked her head in, her polite smile faltering when she saw how close they were. “Ms. Fitzwilliam, your next appointment is here.”

Isolde stepped back quickly, her face flaming as she turned to her desk. “Thank you, Evelyn. I’ll be right out.”

The door closed again, leaving her alone with Callum, who hadn’t moved an inch.

“This isn’t over,” he said quietly, his dark gaze locking with hers one last time.

Then he turned and strode to the door, leaving her standing in the golden light, her hands trembling and her heart racing.

As the door clicked shut, Isolde pressed her palms to the desk, willing her breathing to steady. She told herself she hated him, that his presence was nothing more than a threat she needed to eliminate. But deep down, she knew the truth.

It wasn’t hate that made her pulse race. It was the dangerous allure of a man who could unravel her carefully ordered world with nothing more than a touch.