Page 2 of Tempting the President (Oro Nero MC)

SUNNY’S brEATH CAUGHT as Maverick’s massive frame filled the doorway, his tattooed arms crossed over his chest like living weapons. “You can’t hide from me forever,,” he growled, the sound vibrating through her bones. “A woman like you belongs with a man like me.”

I make a face even as my pulse quickens. Why are all of Eina L. Haze’s heroines basically Charlize Theron with different hair colors?

I mean, seriously.

Raven has “legs for days” and “knows three forms of martial arts.” In the last book, the heroine was an ex-military helicopter pilot who could “drop a man with one precise strike.” Before that, it was a fearless photojournalist who’d survived warzones and “moved like a jungle cat.”

And here I am, five-foot-four on a good day, with my most impressive physical achievement being that I once managed to jump rope for five consecutive minutes without dying.

These women are tall; I’m...well, almost tall in the right shoes. They’re athletic; I can climb a flight of stairs without needing oxygen therapy, and that counts, right? They know how to fight; I technically know how to use pepper spray. I’ve just never actually had to do it.

I sigh and turn the page, wondering what exactly it says about me that I can’t stop reading these books even though the heroines are nothing like me and—

“Dr. Stuart, there’s a gentleman here to see you about Annie Steele.”

I jump so violently that my Kindle goes flying, and I have to perform an undignified lunge across my desk to catch it before Kassie sees what I’m reading.

Technically, I’m “doing research.” Behaviorally, I’m hiding smutty motorcycle club romance novels inside academic journal PDFs like a teenager with contraband.

“Does this gentleman have an appointment?” I ask Kassie, who’s hovering in my doorway looking like she’s just seen a ghost. Or possibly a really attractive ghost, based on the pink flush creeping up her neck.

“He says it’s urgent family business.”

Family business?

Annie Steele is one of my best students. Quiet, thoughtful, the kind of girl who actually reads the assigned textbooks instead of just googling “Freud summary” five minutes before class. Which, let’s be honest, is more than I can say for ninety percent of my students.

“Is Annie in some kind of trouble?”

“I don’t think so, Professor. But he’s very...” Kassie pauses, clearly searching for the right word. “Insistent.”

The way she says “insistent” makes me think she really means “terrifying” or possibly “capable of making grown women forget their own names.” I’ve dealt with pushy parents before, though.

“Send him in, please.” I quickly shut down my Kindle and slide it into my desk drawer. Professional psychologists do not get caught reading scenes where tattooed bikers corner innocent professors in office doorways. Even if said scenes are disturbingly similar to the situation I’m about to face.

I have approximately fifteen seconds to straighten my blouse and run a hand through my hair before the man who enters my office makes me forget how to breathe properly.

He’s tall—six-two at least—with broad shoulders and the kind of physical presence that makes my not-particularly-spacious office feel suddenly claustrophobic. Dark hair, dark eyes that miss nothing, and a mouth that’s currently curved into a smile that’s equal parts amusement and assessment.

But what really steals my breath is the confidence. He walks into my space like he already owns it, like my office is just an extension of whatever territory he’s claimed as his own.

“Dr. Stuart.” He doesn’t offer his hand, just studies me with an intensity that makes me feel like I’m the one being analyzed. “Patrizio Steele. Annie’s brother.”

Brother, not father. Which makes sense, now that I look at him more closely. There’s a family resemblance in the cheekbones and the dark hair, but he’s too young to be her father unless he started extremely early.

“Mr. Steele.” I stand, partly out of professional courtesy and partly because I feel at a distinct disadvantage sitting while he looms over my desk. “What can I do for you? Is Annie alright?”

“Physically, yes.” He sits without being invited, crossing one ankle over his knee in a posture of casual authority. “Academically, I have concerns.”

“Annie is one of my best students.” I sit back down, folding my hands on my desk like a shield. “Her work is consistently excellent, and she participates meaningfully in class discussions. I’m not sure what concerns—”

“I’ve been reading her thesis.” He cuts me off without hesitation, reaching into a leather portfolio I hadn’t noticed before and extracting a sheaf of papers. “Her *real* thesis, not the sanitized version she’s been submitting to you.”

“I don’t understand.” My brow furrows as I reach for the papers. “Annie’s been very thorough with her—”

“Read it.” He pushes the document across my desk. “Page three should be particularly enlightening.”

I try not to show how much I dislike being interrupted, picking up the papers with a professional smile that feels increasingly strained. “What exactly am I looking for, Mr. Steele?”

“Evidence that my sister is using your class to explore subjects that might be considered...inappropriate for her age.”

The first page looks innocuous enough—standard header, title (“Psychological Dynamics of Power Exchange in Contemporary Relationships”), Annie’s name. Nothing alarming there.

Page two contains a fairly standard introduction about how relationships involve complex psychological interplay, how traditional gender roles are being reimagined in modern contexts, blah blah blah.

And then I flip to page three, where Annie Steele, my quiet, thoughtful student who always sits in the second row and takes meticulous notes, has written a detailed analysis of the appeal of “motorcycle club alpha males” and their psychological effect on “repressed academic women.”

Complete with case studies.

Detailed case studies that sound suspiciously like every romance novel I’ve ever read and every fantasy I’ve ever had and every reason I hide my Kindle when people come over.

“It seems she’s been interviewing women...” I manage to say, trying to sound professionally detached rather than personally attacked.

“What else?” Patrizio prompts, and there’s something in his voice that makes me glance up sharply.

“And asking them about their fantasies involving...dangerous men.”

“Apparently she finds the psychology fascinating.”

Ignore it, Jayne.

“Something about the contrast between public control and private submission.”

Ignore the way he’s looking at you like you’re someone so fascinating...someone to demand public control and private submission from.

I hastily flip through more pages, but this only backfires since I end up being confronted with even more of Annie’s mortifyingly accurate research about “intelligent women who present themselves as independent and self-sufficient” and their involuntary response to “alpha males in positions of authority.”

Every scenario his sister’s analyzed sounds exactly like something I’ve read. Reread. And possibly dreamed about on more than one occasion.

“I...I don’t know what to say. She’s never submitted anything like this—”

“Would you have accepted it if she did?”

Would I?

A paper this explicit, this detailed about sexual psychology and submission fantasies?

“I’m afraid it would have been inappropriate for undergraduate coursework.”

“Exactly. So she writes sanitized versions for you and keeps the real research to herself.”

‘Real’ is the last word I’d use to describe this kind of research.

Not because it’s inaccurate.

But because it’s exactly that.

Too uncomfortably accurate, especially for someone like me who can identify with every woman in every scenario Annie’s written about.

“Do you think she’s writing about what she’s observed?” I ask, trying to maintain professional composure when what I really want to do is slam the paper face-down on my desk and never look at it again.

“How would she—”

“Perhaps there’s a woman she knows who presents herself as independent and self-sufficient. A professor like you, for instance—”

“Excuse me?”

“Hypothetically speaking, of course,” Patrizio clarifies lazily.

Riiiight .

“But it’s possible, isn’t it? That there’s a woman in Annie’s life she’s able to study. Someone who maintains perfect professional control but secretly craves something entirely different.”

My mouth goes dry.

This conversation is heading into dangerous territory, and I’m...I’m not going to let him do that.

Take control, Jayne!

“Mr. Steele, I understand your concern for your sister, but I’m not sure what you want me to do with this information.” I close the thesis and push it back across the desk, relieved when my hand doesn’t visibly shake. “Annie’s academic work for my class has been entirely appropriate.”

“And yet she’s clearly spending considerable time exploring these...psychological dynamics.” He doesn’t touch the papers, just watches me with that unsettling intensity. “I’m concerned about where she’s getting her information.”

“What exactly are you implying, Mr. Steele?”

“I’m not implying anything, darling. I’m stating quite directly that I want to know who’s been teaching my nineteen-year-old sister about motorcycle clubs and sexual submission.”

Darling.

The word slides over me like warm honey, inappropriate and somehow exactly right in his deep voice. And it immediately activates Rule #1: Never trust a man who calls you “darling” when you’ve just met.

For good reason, apparently, since the man who just used that endearment is accusing me of...of what, exactly?

“I assure you, it hasn’t been me.” I straighten my spine, finding refuge in professional indignation. “And I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t use terms of endearment when addressing me. It’s Dr. Stuart, not ‘darling.’”