Page 8 of The Rival’s Obsession (The Black Ledger Billionaires #3)

“ I have to admit... I’m impressed.” Eve hums as she sets her wineglass down, the crystal ringing softly against the marble.

I arch a brow as I walk back into the dining area with a second bottle. “That I opened a bottle of Barolo without spilling it on the rug?”

“That you didn’t order in,” she says, grinning as she sinks a little deeper into the chair, like we’re old friends. “You don’t exactly give off homemade-risotto energy.”

I chuckle and move behind her, reaching over her shoulder to top off her glass. “What kind of energy do I give off?”

“Wearing the fuck out of an Armani suit. Power lunches. Sex-on-a-desk kind of energy,” she says without hesitation, and the heat behind her tone makes me pause.

I lean in closer, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “For the record, I’m excellent at all three.”

Today was her first official day under contract—her first conversation with Grant, her first step into the powder keg I handed her with a smile and no warning. And she handled it.

Well enough that Grant actually texted me.

Just me.

Not in a board-wide group thread. Not through an assistant. Not as some thinly veiled jab buried in a press release.

It was three words.

“I’ll do it.”

We haven’t texted directly in nearly a year, and prior to that, it was nothing but the occasional low jab and arguments.

And now... here we are. The two of us agreeing to face this. The spark of possibility between us, crackling hotter than the flame I cooked with.

“I figured you were too self-centered to cook,” she replies, and smiles like she expects me to be offended.

I am.

But only a little.

I lean back in my seat, fingers toying with the stem of my glass. “There’s a lot about me you don’t know.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it.” Her gaze flicks up. “That’s what makes this job interesting.”

I should keep this professional.

But she’s not making it easy when every move she makes gets the attention of my hardening cock.

“You’re not curious?” she asks, breaking the silence. “About what Grant and I talked about?”

“I already know what matters.” I trace the rim of my glass. “He said yes.”

“True,” she concedes. “But what I really want to know is how you two fell out. I mean, I’m supposed to fix it. Seems a little unfair you left that part blank.”

I watch her. “I didn’t want to bias you.”

“You mean you didn’t want to be the villain up front.”

“Same thing.”

Her eyes narrow like she’s trying to read me. And she is. Smart, strategic. She’s not just beautiful, not just sharp—she’s trained. Every word I say, she files away like evidence.

I slide my chair back, letting the tension stretch between us like a drawn wire. One leg crosses over my knee as I settle deeper, slower, needing more distance and less of it all at once.

She gets up, and my eyes trail down.

The temperature in the room spikes in a second.

That red dress hugs her body like it was stitched directly onto her skin.

Tight, short, indecently elegant. It shifts with her every step, clinging to her hips and ass like it wants to make me suffer.

She brings her wineglass with her—never breaks eye contact—as she crosses the room with the kind of grace that makes my cock twitch beneath the table.

When she reaches my side, she doesn’t ask for permission.

She slides onto the table beside me, smooth and unbothered, her thighs flexing as she settles on the polished mahogany like she belongs there.

She fucking does.

My mouth waters watching the fabric inch up as she crosses her legs—slow, sensual, elegant. Her calves rub together, the movement so deliberate I know she’s doing it for my benefit.

And it’s working.

My hands ache to reach between them, to slide beneath that dress, grab that perfect round ass she’s clearly sculpted with hours in the gym—and maybe a personal trainer or two.

I want her on her knees. I want her on all fours.

I want her bent over this table with my hands digging into her hips so hard she bruises.

But she’s talking. And I want that too.

“What do you know so far?” I ask, voice low and steady.

She lets the question settle as she takes another sip of wine. Then she starts her assessment like she’s peeling a label off a fine bottle—slow, deliberate, ready to see what’s underneath.

“You speak Italian,” she says. “But only in two situations. When you’re furious and when you’re fucking.”

She smirks when my brow twitches—just barely.

“You have extraordinary taste in men and women,” she continues, “but you lean toward men.”

I smile at that, slow and dark. “Molto brava, bellissima.”? *

I lift the wine to my mouth and swallow its rich flavor. She watches when I run my tongue along my bottom lip like she wants it on her pussy.

Anch’io, piccola ? * . Me too.

“Don’t tell me what’s in my Ledger profile,” I say, voice deepening just enough to catch her attention. “I want to know what you’ve found out today.”

She sets her wineglass down with a soft click, flips her hair off her shoulder, and leans back on her hands—chest lifted, neck long, body stretched and offered like temptation personified.

The scent of her perfume hits me—subtle, floral, with just enough spice to make it feel sinful. I inhale slowly and feel it in my spine.

She’s shifting the tone now. Guiding the conversation exactly where she wants it. And I let her—because watching her work is half the fun.

Her voice dips lower. “The key to fixing this will be Grant.”

I nod once, silent.

“You’re part of it, of course. But he’s the one with the armor on top of armor, and not nearly enough time to dismantle it all. Not in two weeks.”

She glances at me, waiting for me to push back, but I don’t.

“And then there’s Corrine,” she adds casually, like she’s dropping a match in a puddle of gasoline.

The name hits like a shot to the ribs.

I feel it before I can stop it—the hard pull of muscle across my jaw, the way my grip tightens on the stem of my glass. I say nothing.

But Eve saw it.

Her lashes lower, lips curling like she’s just confirmed a theory.

“Not sure what role she plays yet,” she says lightly. “But you do. That much is obvious.”

I keep my mouth shut. No good can come from giving her a reaction.

“What I can’t figure out,” she says, shifting her weight just enough to draw my eyes back to her thighs, “is the catalyst. Something changed. Something snapped. And for everything else I’ve studied—body language, speech patterns, boardroom dynamics…”

Her eyes meet mine again, sharp and hungry.

“…none of it tells me this.”

She leans forward slightly, her voice a blade wrapped in silk.

“What changed between you two—was it personal or professional?”

I smirk.

She’s bold, I’ll give her that. But she should know by now—I don’t give away information for free. Not when everything in this contract has a cost. And not when the truth she’s after is worth far more than a glass of wine and a well-cut dress.

“There’s a price for that answer,” I say smoothly, sipping from my glass.

Eve tilts her head, intrigued. “I thought I was the one charging you a fee, Mr. Marchesi.”

I push up from my chair and walk into the kitchen. I feel her watching me, tracking my every move like a predator waiting to pounce—or maybe a thief watching the vault, wondering how many steps until it opens.

From the drawer beneath the wine fridge, I pull out a deck of playing cards. The box is matte black, worn at the corners. I toss it in my palm once before returning to her.

“Simple rules,” I say, placing the deck on the table near her thigh. “We each draw a card. Highest one wins.”

She raises a brow. “And if I win?”

“You can ask a question. Any question.”

Her eyes flick down to the deck, then up again, sharp and glinting with interest. “What do you get if you win?”

I take a slow sip of wine, letting the moment stretch until she shifts on the table—just enough to betray her anticipation.

“If I win,” I murmur, “you follow directions.”

As if on cue, the lights above dim to a soft golden glow. Romantic music hums to life beneath the quiet tension—slow jazz, sultry, threaded with the kind of bass that moves through your bones. In the living room, a fire roars to life in the inset fireplace, shadows flickering up the slate wall.

Eve laughs, the sound warm and indulgent. “Smooth.”

I shrug. “It’s on a timer.”

“Hm. I bet it is.”

“I like ambiance,” I say, expression unreadable. “Helps me relax.”

She toys with the corner of the deck but doesn’t touch it yet. “And when does this game end?”

My answer is as dark as my hair and twice as dangerous.

“When one of us refuses the other.”

Her eyes narrow—assessing, calculating—but the corner of her mouth tugs upward as she brings her glass to her lips. She takes a sip and nods.

“I’m in,” she says. “Let’s play.”

* ? “Very good, beautiful.”

* ? Me too, baby.