Page 18 of Tempting the President

I’m pretty sure this priceless-looking cup will land me in debt if I accidentally break it.

But then I take a sip, and my gaze immediately flies to his.

How?

How is it possible that he’s made a triple shot cappuccino with exactly the right amount of foam and not a hint of sugar, exactly the way I like it?

“Surprised?” he asks, settling into an armchair across from me with his own cup. Espresso, by the smell of it.

“How did you know my coffee preference?”

But Patrizio only smiles at this before changing the subject.

“I’ve been reading your books.”

And of course it has to be the one subject which I’d rather not talk about.

“You havenoright—”

But he just goes on like privacy invasion is nothing to him. “What is it about those books that you find fascinating?”

“Can we please not talk about this?” I grip my coffee cup like it’s a shield against embarrassment. “You said you wanted to discuss Annie’s academic progress.”

“I do.” He leans forward slightly, and the movement shouldn’t be threatening but somehow it makes my pulse race. “And that’s exactly the reason I’m asking you these questions. I want to understand why her professor is so fascinated by the exact subject she’s researching.”

“I’ve already told you, I—”

“Read them for academic research. Yes, I remember.” His smile suggests he finds my denial amusing. “That’s why you’ve read ‘Taken in the Hallway’ seven times and highlighted the scene where the heroine gets cornered by the motorcycle club president and finally admits what she really wants.”

I’m going to die. Actually die of mortification right here on his ridiculously expensive sofa.

“Mr. Steele—”

“Patrizio,” he corrects, and somehow his first name feels even more dangerous on my lips than ‘Mr. Steele’ ever did.

“Patrizio,” I try again, and the way his eyes darken when I say his name makes something flutter in my stomach. “What exactly do you want from me?”

“Honesty would be a good start.” He stands in one fluid motion and moves to sit beside me on the sofa. Not touching, but close enough that I can feel the heat of his body. “Tell me why you’re so interested in these stories, Jayne.”

The way he says my name so softly makes it impossible to maintain the professional distance I’m desperately trying to cling to.

“They’re just books,” I say weakly.

“Are they?” His hand settles on the back of the sofa, not quite touching me but close enough that I can feel the whisper of his presence. “Or are they fantasies? Things you think about when you’re alone?”

My throat goes dry. “That’s not—”

“Tell me something,” he interrupts, his voice dropping lower, more intimate. “When you read about those powerful men and the women who surrender to them, do you picture yourself as the heroine?”

“No.” The lie is automatic, defensive.

“No?” His smile suggests he knows better. “Then why does your breathing change when I get closer? Why are your pupils dilated right now?”

“Professional curiosity,” I manage, but the words sound weak even to my own ears.

“Is that what we’re calling it?” His fingers brush against a strand of hair that’s escaped my bun, tucking it behind my ear with devastating gentleness. “Because I think it’s something else entirely.”

I should move away. Should stand up and leave and maintain all the professional boundaries I’ve spent years constructing. Instead, I find myself frozen in place, caught between the urge to flee and the much more dangerous impulse to lean into his touch.