Page 2 of Sinful Eve

Oh God. Hewasasking me out. I'd looked him over again. Not that I needed to re-inventory his dark hair, dark eyes, and skin tone. Dark everything, including my fantasies. Which was why instead of saying, "Yes," I'd said, "Sorry, I don't mix business with pleasure."

"Great, then we agree. The business part ends when the wedding does," he'd said with a look that had promised all kinds of pleasure.

***

I give myself a final once-over in my hallway mirror before heading to Sindicate Towers. My cheeks are already flushed from the biting wind, no blush needed. I tame my naturally curly hair into my ninja-photographer bun—sleek, professional, and guaranteed to stay put through hours of crouching and dodging. The severe style matches my modest black dress. Purposefully plain because no bride wants to see her photographer strutting around in anything eye-catching. My whole outfit is a carefully crafted disguise, designed to help me fade into the background.

Tonight, I’ll be invisible, yet everywhere, capturing every precious moment without being noticed. Well, almost every moment—Carlo's "do not photograph" list sits in my bag like a loaded gun. I push away thoughts of dark eyes and dangerous smiles. Focus, Olivia. You've got a job to do.

Staying invisible isn’t the most challenging part of wedding photography. No, the hard part comes later. When everyone leaves and goes on with their life, and I have none. I work nearly every day. Hustling to grow my business only to lose my gains when I slow down. I am a hamster in a cage. If I jump off the wheel for a moment, it stops spinning, forcing me to run twice as fast to get it going again. My last boyfriend had asked me if it was worth it. “Will this job keep you warm at night?”

Dammit, I shake my shoulders. Straightening them to shake off the withering words and glare he’d given before he’d dumped me. He’d wanted me to take two weeks off to visit his family for the holidays—two of the busiest weeks of the year. I don’t regret my decision. Even before Mom got sick, I knew he wasn’t theone. He treated me like a princess, as if I were his breakable doll. I would never hitch myself to a man who doesn’t appreciate my strength. Value it. Still, despite my resolve, I feel… lonely. It has to be the time spent caring for my mother. Seeing her alone and frail had buried a little worm in my heart. A worm which wriggles uncomfortably. Am I building an empire to live in it alone? Will I wander like some doomed queen in a Shakespearean castle, talking to ghosts?

No. Fuck that. What if I had a successful business and a life with a man who treasured me? And not for nothing, but a man who can fuck the shit out of me, because if I’m dreaming, then why not go for it? What if I can make money and make time for a relationship? I don’t--I hate thinking it--don’t want to end up like my mother. Although, despite her solitary life, she’d at least had me. Who do I have?

My heart thunders against my ribs when I enter Sindicate Towers and press the elevator button. The Cathedral lives up to its name—a wedding chapel masquerading as an enchanted forest. Emerald vines twist around marble columns and crystal chandeliers glimmer like stars above the dance floor. But these twinkling lights are a photographer's nightmare, creating harsh shadows that battle with the hundreds of flickering candles. My fingers twitch on my camera settings, already calculating the ISO adjustments I'll need. One wrong setting and the whole evening could turn into a grainy, unusable mess.

The security presence turns my usual stealth photographer routine into a minefield. Men in perfectly tailored suits stand strategically throughout the room, their earpieces glinting like warning signs. My stomach clenches when I spot Carlo Gataki commanding this small army. His eagle-eyed gaze cuts through the crowd and finds me instantly, as if he's been waiting. I’m dressed sedately but he stares at me like he sees my lacy thong.I didn’t understand why I chose tonight to wear my sexiest underwear—until I see him.

The man is walking temptation—thick raven hair with just enough curl to make my fingers itch to touch it, a jawline that could cut glass, and a slightly crooked nose that saves him from being too perfect. His body is all gladiator, with broad shoulders straining his suit jacket and the kind of chest that belongs on a Greek statue. My camera begs to capture him, but when our eyes lock, electricity arcs between us. His curt nod reminds me of his rules.Yes, Mr. Gray, I think, I’ll follow whatever rules you have.The thought dampens me, and my fingers shake as I unpack my equipment. I turn away, though my instincts rebel against leaving such a perfect model.

Throughout the evening, we dance our private waltz. His job is keeping secrets; mine is revealing truth. We circle each other like wary cats—a raised eyebrow here, a half-smirk there, looks that linger until my skin burns. I try to focus on my work, but my lens keeps finding him in the crowd.

Between shots, I retreat to a quiet alcove, desperate for a moment to steady my trembling hands and racing pulse. The cool marble wall against my back grounds me, but then his voice trails down my spine like warm honey.

"I didn't take you for someone who hides in corners," Carlo says. I can’t see the half-smile he favors, but I hear it,

"And I didn't take you for someone who follows photographers into dark corners."

"It's my job to notice everything." He steps closer, and his cologne—citrus and something darker—makes my head spin.

"Hmm, and it's my job to capture moments." I lift my camera like a shield.

Carlo's hand wraps around my lens, lowering it. "We discussed the rules about unauthorized photos."

"Rules that make it impossible to do my job properly," I snap, grinding my teeth together. "How am I supposed to capture genuine moments when I have to constantly check your approval for every single shot?"

"Nevertheless," he says, moving closer until I'm pinned between him and the wall, "it's what you agreed to." His thumb traces circles on my camera, and my mind helpfully supplies images of those hands on my skin instead.

I swallow hard, my throat suddenly desert-dry. "Fine, I'll be more careful," I say, and I can’t help the pout. “Can I at least take your picture? I notice your name is not on the list.”

He arches a brow and shakes his head. “No. Only if you want me to come by tonight and retrieve it.”

My brows furrow. Is he forbidding me or inviting me? I stand frozen until he moves. He crowds closer, and my photographer's armor might as well be tissue paper. The wall is cool against my back, but Carlo is a furnace. I've dealt with handsy groomsmen before and know exactly where to land a strategic knee, but the predatory grace in his movements says my usual tactics would be useless. I narrow my eyes, summoning my best don't-mess-with-me glare, even as his citrus-and-patchouli scent makes my knees weak.

"Don't worry, Olivia Neal." His fingers brush my cheek, igniting a trail of fire. "This event is almost over—then we’ll have no more business between us. You know what that leaves?"

Oh, God, I do. Images of him slamming into my hard and fast, me with my legs up in the air as he grips my ass flood my system. He may be a furnace but I’m the sun. A star blazing so hot that it lights galaxies.

He drops his hand, but his gaze holds me as effectively as iron chains until a server with a question turns him away. A man I hadn’t even realized was standing next to us. What-the-heck? When was the last time I wanted a guy this much? Short answer—never. Is it the famous instalove? Hmph, I doubt it. This is something dirtier. Instalust.

The server retreats, but his appearance gives me just enough time to compose myself. Composure I lose when he leans, and his lips brush the shell of my ear. My traitorous body arches toward him like a flower seeking sun. He whispers, “Only a few more hours.” A promise he gives that feels like a threat. His hands grip the back of my neck, forcing my eyes to meet his. Forcing a response, I’m not sure I’m ready to admit.

"Please," I whisper, but the word sounds more like begging than protest. My camera hangs forgotten between us, the strap digging into my shoulders.

Our gazes lock, the air crackling with possibility. Then Carlo steps back, the spell shattering like crystal on marble. "I will," he says, voice rough. "But not yet. Back to work."

He melts into the crowd, resuming his role as security chief. I'd come here seeking peace, a moment to reset my frazzled nerves. Instead, Carlo's words have stirred up a storm inside me, turning my usual professional calm into a tempest of want and warning. I press my palm against my thundering heart, wondering when—not if—this lightning will strike.

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