Page 10 of Tempting the President

“Would you?” His smile suggests he finds my request amusing. “Even knowing that I’ve seen your highlights? Your bookmarks? All those passages about powerful men and the women who surrender to them?”

My face burns. “It’s private property.”

“So is my sister’s research journal.” He nods toward the folder. “And yet here we are.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?” He leans forward slightly, and the movement shouldn’t be threatening but somehow it makes my pulse race. “Or is it just that you’re more comfortable observing others than being observed yourself?”

The accusation hits uncomfortably close to home. As a psychologist, I spend my professional life analyzing others—their motivations, their behaviors, the disconnects between what they say and what they do. But having those same analytical tools turned on me feels invasive in a way I’m not prepared to handle.

“I believe this meeting is over, Mr. Steele.” I stand, hoping the change in position will give me some sense of control over the situation. “I’d appreciate the return of my property.”

He stands as well, and the difference in our heights is immediately apparent, my attempt at dominance undermined by the need to look up to meet his eyes.

“Not yet, I think.” He steps closer, close enough that I catch the subtle scent of his cologne. “There’s something I need to verify first.”

“What—”

The question dies in my throat as he reaches out, his fingers brushing against my cheek with feather-light precision. Just a whisper of contact, barely there and gone almost immediately, but it sends electricity coursing through my entire body.

“Fascinating,” he murmurs, and I know he’s noticed my reaction. The catch in my breath, the sudden dilation of my pupils, the way I haven’t stepped back despite having plenty of space to do so. “Annie’s observations were quite accurate.”

I should be offended. Should be outraged at being treated like a research subject. Should tell him to leave and never come back.

Instead, I stand frozen, caught between professional indignation and a much more dangerous emotion I refuse to name.

“I’ll make you a deal, Dr. Stuart.” His voice is low, intimate. “I’ll return your Kindle when you admit something to both of us.”

“What?” The word comes out embarrassingly breathless.

“That you’re as intrigued by me as I am by you.” His eyes hold mine, dark and knowing and impossible to look away from. “That all those books you read aren’t just academic research, but a glimpse into what you really want.”

The denial rises automatically to my lips, but something stops me from voicing it. Maybe it’s the futility of lying to someone who’s already seen the evidence. Maybe it’s the strange relief of being truly seen after years of careful facades.

Or maybe it’s the simple fact that he’s right.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” I say finally, which isn’t a denial but isn’t quite an admission either.

“Yes, you do.” He steps back, giving me space to breathe again. “You’ve read enough books to know exactly how this story goes.”

He moves toward the door, and I have the strangest sensation of both relief and disappointment as he prepares to leave.

“Keep the research journal,” he says, his hand on the doorknob. “I have a feeling you’ll find it...illuminating.”

“And my Kindle?”

His smile is pure masculine satisfaction. “I think I’ll hold onto that a bit longer. I’m not finished exploring what Dr. Jayne Stuart finds...stimulating.”

The door closes behind him with a soft click, leaving me alone with Annie’s research journal, my racing heart, and the dawning realization that I’ve just broken Rule #2: Don’t let him see what you really read.

Because Patrizio Steele hasn’t just seen what I read.

He’s seen me.

And somehow that’s infinitely more terrifying—and thrilling—than anything I’ve ever read in those books he now knows I love.

Two hours later, I’m on my second cup of coffee at Caffeinated Pages, and I've just finishedrantingrecounting the entire mortifying encounter in excruciating detail.