Page 8 of Tempting the President

I take a deep breath, straighten my already-straight blouse, and remind myself that I am Dr. Jayne Stuart, respected psychology professor with multiple publications and a teaching award. Not some flustered heroine in a romance novel.

“Come in,” I call, and even to my own ears, my voice sounds higher than usual.

Patrizio Steele doesn’t just enter my office. He claims it. One moment the space is mine, the next it belongs to him, my carefully arranged academic credibility no match for the sheer presence of the man who closes the door behind him with deliberate precision.

“Good morning, Dr. Stuart.” The way he says my title still sounds like an endearment, intimate rather than formal. “I hope you slept well.”

The lie rises automatically to my lips. “Perfectly, thank you.”

“Really?” His eyes glint, and why do I suddenly have a feeling that my expertly applied concealer suddenly isn’t effective at concealing the shadows under my eyes? “I’d have thought you might be...concerned about certain personal property currently in my possession.”

My Kindle. My traitorous, secret-revealing Kindle that even now is probably sitting in his pocket, loaded with evidence of exactly what kind of books keep me awake at night.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, aiming for professional detachment and landing somewhere closer to unconvincing denial.

His smile is slow and knowing. “Don’t you? I found your reading choices quite...illuminating.”

My face heats instantly, the blush I’ve been fighting since he walked in finally winning the battle. “Mr. Steele—”

“Patrizio,” he corrects, settling into the chair across from my desk with the casual confidence of someone who knows they have the upper hand.

“Mr. Steele,” I repeat firmly, clinging to formality like a lifeline. “I believe you mentioned bringing more of Annie’s work for me to review?”

“I did.” He reaches into his leather portfolio, extracting a manila folder that he places on my desk without releasing it. “But first, I thought we might discuss what I discovered about your literary preferences.”

“My reading habits are none of your business.” I reach for the folder, but he keeps his hand firmly on top, preventing me from taking it.

“Aren’t they? When they align so perfectly with the material my sister is researching?”

“I’ve already told you, I haven’t been influencing Annie’s work.”

“And yet you seem remarkably familiar with the genre she’s studying.” His fingers tap lightly on the folder. “In fact, based on your highlighting patterns, I’d say you’re something of an expert.”

I want to sink through the floor. Want to disappear entirely rather than have this conversation with this man. But since spontaneous dematerialization isn’t an option, I force myself to meet his gaze.

“What exactly do you want, Mr. Steele?”

“Honesty, Dr. Stuart.” His voice drops lower, softer. “I want you to admit that you understand exactly why these books appeal to women like you. Why the fantasy of surrendering control to a powerful man is so compelling to someone who spends her entire life maintaining the perfect professional facade.”

My throat goes dry as the desert. He’s not just talking about what I read—he’s talking about me. About parts of myself I’ve never acknowledged out loud to anyone.

“I don’t—”

“You do.” His hand finally releases the folder, but somehow I can’t make myself reach for it anymore. “You understand the psychology of it perfectly. The appeal of being seen—truly seen—by someone who isn’t fooled by the careful barriers you’ve constructed.”

The accuracy of his assessment feels like a physical blow. Like he’s reached inside my chest and wrapped his hand around something private and vulnerable.

“You have no right—”

“To notice what’s obvious?” His eyebrow rises in elegant challenge. “To recognize desire when I see it?”

“This is completely inappropriate.” I find refuge in professional indignation, in the familiar territory of boundaries and propriety. “You’re my student’s brother. This is my workplace. Whatever you think you’ve discovered about my reading preferences has no bearing on—”

“It has every bearing on why my sister has chosen you as the subject of her research.”

That stops me cold. “What?”

“Annie’s thesis.” He taps the folder again. “It’s about you, Jayne. About the psychology of women who present one face to the world while secretly craving something entirely different. And you’re her primary case study.”