Page 15 of Ruined by My Ex’s Dad (Silver Fox Obsession #2)

Lucas

E ight o'clock.

I checked my watch for perhaps the twentieth time in the past hour, then returned to the reports spread across my desk.

The Madison Street numbers blurred before my eyes, my usual laser focus fractured by anticipation.

Would she come?

She'd said yes in the gallery, had taken my card, had whispered "tomorrow" like a promise.

But Savannah Blake struck me as a woman who might change her mind, might listen to the voice of reason that had nearly won our argument the day before.

Might choose practicality over the dangerous current running between us.

Part of me almost hoped she would.

The rational, disciplined businessman who had built Turner Holdings from a modest inheritance into a real estate empire.

The father who, despite our complicated relationship, shouldn't cross this line with his son's former girlfriend.

The man who had spent decades cultivating a reputation for ethical dealings and clear boundaries.

But that wasn't the part of me in control tonight.

My penthouse occupied the top two floors of The Archer, the luxury high-rise that had been Turner Holdings' first significant development in San Francisco.

Forty-five stories up, with floor-to-ceiling windows that transformed the city into a glittering tapestry spread at my feet.

The ultimate statement of power and achievement.

My domain.

The space reflected me—or at least, the public version of me.

Clean lines, modern furnishings in neutral tones, strategically placed art pieces from notable contemporary artists.

Impressive but impersonal. The perfect backdrop for entertaining clients, hosting fundraisers, and projecting the image expected of Lucas Turner, CEO.

But my office—that was different.

Tucked away on the upper level, it was the one room rarely seen by visitors.

Where the rest of the penthouse was designed to impress, my office was designed for comfort. Solid walnut bookshelves lined the walls, filled not with impressive first editions or designer-selected volumes, but with well-worn books I'd read.

Biographies, histories, philosophy, poetry—eclectic choices that reflected curiosity rather than status.

An antique Persian rug in deep blues and burgundies covered the hardwood floor, a family heirloom from my grandmother.

The massive desk wasn't the expected sleek glass and steel, but a refurbished partner's desk from the 1920s, its surface marked with decades of use, each scratch and stain telling a story.

The only modern concession was the wall of windows behind the desk, offering the same panoramic view as the rest of the penthouse.

The only reminder of the power I wielded in this city.

I selected a bottle of Highland Park 25 from the bar cabinet, pouring two fingers into a crystal tumbler. The ritual calmed me, imposed order on the unusual restlessness I'd felt all day.

Control had always been my cornerstone—over my company, my emotions, my desires.

Yet here I was, waiting for a woman who had cracked that foundation with a single night, with green eyes that saw too much, with a defiance that matched my own.

The subtle chime of the security system broke through my thoughts. I checked the monitor discreetly mounted behind a bookshelf panel—Savannah stood at the private elevator entrance, her face tilted up toward the camera.

She'd come.

I pressed the button to grant her access, then positioned myself at the window, back to the elevator doors.

A small power play, perhaps, but one that would allow me to collect myself before facing her.

The elevator's soft ping announced her arrival. I didn't turn immediately, listening to the whisper of the doors opening, the hesitant click of heels on hardwood, the silence as she took in her surroundings.

"Impressive view," she said finally.

Her voice was steady, betraying none of the nervousness I'd glimpsed on the security monitor.

I turned then, and the sight of her stole my carefully prepared greeting.

She wore a simple black dress that skimmed her curves without flaunting them, her hair loose around her shoulders rather than in the severe knot she'd worn at our business lunch.

But it was her expression that caught me—a mixture of defiance and vulnerability that sent heat coursing through me.

"The benefit of being first to develop in this neighborhood," I said, moving toward her with deliberate calm. "I had my choice of views."

"Of course you did." A slight smile played at her lips.

"I imagine Lucas Turner always gets his choice of everything."

"Not everything," I countered, stopping before her. Close enough to catch her scent—jasmine again, with something deeper beneath it.

"Some things are worth waiting for. Worth earning."

Her eyes met mine, that direct gaze I'd found so compelling from the first moment. "Is that what this is? You earning something?"

"This," I said, deliberately not touching her though every cell in my body demanded it, "is whatever we choose to make it. Nothing more, nothing less."

"So formal," she observed, glancing around the living room.

"So controlled. Is this how you seduce all your conquests, Lucas? Expensive whiskey and philosophical pronouncements?"

The challenge in her voice stirred something primal in me. "I told you before—you're not a conquest."

"Then what am I?" She moved past me, trailing her fingers along the back of a leather sofa. "A complication? A forbidden indulgence? Your son's leftovers?"

I caught her wrist, my control slipping at her deliberate provocation.

"Don't."

She didn't pull away, her pulse racing beneath my thumb.

"Don't what? Speak the truth? Acknowledge what this is?"

"You have no idea what this is," I said, my voice dropping.

"What you are to me."

"Then tell me." She stepped closer, closing the distance between us until I could feel the heat of her body.

"Or better yet, show me."

The invitation hung between us, charged with everything we'd been denying since that night at the wedding.

I released her wrist, my hand sliding up her arm to cup her face.

"You're sure?" I asked, offering one last chance to retreat. To preserve the boundaries we'd both cited as reasons to resist this pull.

Her answer was to rise on her toes, bringing her mouth a breath away from mine.

"I wouldn't be here if I weren't."

I kissed her then, none of the bruising intensity from the gallery but a slow, deliberate claiming. My hands framed her face, thumbs stroking her cheekbones as my tongue teased the seam of her lips, seeking entrance she willingly granted.

She tasted of mint and courage, her body melting into mine with a slight sound that sent heat straight to my core. Her hands found my shoulders, my chest, tugging at the buttons of my shirt with an impatience that made me smile against her mouth.

"Eager, little fox?" I murmured, nipping at her lower lip.

"Tired of waiting," she countered, working another button free.

"Tired of pretending I don't want this."

I caught her hands, stilling them against my chest.

"Then let me show you my terms."

Her eyes darkened, pupils expanding with desire.

"Your terms?"

"My home. My rules." I brushed my lips across her knuckles.

"First rule: We take our time."

A flush spread across her cheeks.

"And if I don't agree to your terms?"

"Then you're free to leave." I released her hands, stepping back slightly.

"Or to propose alternatives. I'm not opposed to... negotiation."

Something sparked in her eyes—surprise, perhaps, or appreciation. She hadn't expected a choice. Had assumed my control meant dictation rather than collaboration.

"Show me more of your home," she said, a slight smile playing at her lips.

"Then we'll discuss terms."

I offered my hand, which she took after only a moment's hesitation. Her fingers twined with mine, warm and surprisingly strong.

Not clinging, not submissive, but equal.

Connected.

I led her through the main living area, past the kitchen with its gleaming surfaces and unused appliances, toward the staircase that led to the upper level.

"No personal touches," she observed as we climbed.

"No photos, no mementos. Nothing that says 'Lucas' rather than 'successful CEO.'"

Her perception was unsettling.

"The public spaces are designed for impression, not comfort."

"And the private ones?"

I didn't answer, instead guiding her to my office door.

"Perhaps you'll find this more revealing."

I opened the door, watching her face as she took in the room—the bookshelves, the antique furniture, the subtle signs of actual living that were absent from the rest of the penthouse.

Her expression shifted from surprise to genuine interest as she moved to the bookshelves, fingers trailing along the spines.

"Neruda," she said, pulling out a worn volume of poetry. "In Spanish, no less. I wouldn't have pegged the great Lucas Turner as a romantic."

"There's quite a lot you don't know about me," I echoed my words from the gallery, watching as she leafed through the book.

"'No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio...'" she read, her pronunciation flawless. My surprise must have shown, because she smiled.

"Six years of Spanish and a semester abroad in Barcelona. Another thing you don't know about me."

The realization that she could read one of my favorite poems in its original language, that she contained layers I'd only begun to glimpse, sent unexpected heat through me.

She wasn't just physically desirable—she was intellectually stimulating, constantly surprising, impossible to categorize or predict.

She replaced the book, moving deeper into the office, studying each detail with the same focus she'd given the gallery photographs.

"This room feels lived in. Real." Her eyes met mine over her shoulder. "Unlike the rest of your fortress."

"The public gets the image they expect," I said, following her. "Few get to see beyond it."

"And what am I seeing?"

She stopped before my desk, hand resting on the polished wood.

"The real Lucas Turner? Or just another carefully curated version?"