Page 4 of His Obsession

‘Donations of this size,’—a polite euphemism if ever he’d heard one. The taste of copper filled his mouth as he bit the inside of his cheek to suppress the sharp retort that threatened to escape. She was playing with fire, testing boundaries she didn’t yet understand.

He watched her carefully, saw the moment she realized she’d drifted too close to dangerous territory. Her lashes lowered, and she tilted her head, a picture of polished diplomacy… or submissiveness.

“You’re right, of course,” he said, his voice low and measured. “I suppose my employer has been a quiet admirer of the foundation’s work for some time. The organization has a long-standing belief in giving back to the community, and we’ve only recently begun expanding our reach into Dublin.”

Ciarán cleared his throat softly, a subtle signal that the conversation was veering into delicate territory. Callum ignored him. His focus was solely on Isolde, on the graceful line of her neck as she bent to sign the document.

The sight of her hand trembling slightly as she pressed the pen to paper sent an unexpected surge of protectiveness through him. He tamped it down immediately. Protectiveness wasn’t useful here. Control was.

“Mr. Kavanagh,” she said, her tone professional but cautious as she slid the signed document back toward Ciarán, who put it in his briefcase and let them alone. “Your employer’s support will go a long way toward funding our next initiatives. We’ll be sure to keep you updated on our progress.”

Her attempt at formality amused him. “I’d appreciate that,” he said, stepping closer, his voice dropping just enough to make the air between them crackle. “But I have to admit, I’m more interested in the people behind the foundation than the initiatives themselves.”

Her eyes snapped up to his, her cheeks coloring again. “The people?”

“You,” he said simply, his gaze locking on hers. “Your passion for this work is obvious. It’s rare to see someone so dedicated.”

Isolde blinked, clearly caught off guard by his directness. “I—I appreciate that. But the foundation’s success is a team effort.”

“Of course,” Callum said, the corner of his mouth lifting in a way that wasn’t quite a smile. “But every team needs a strong leader. I can see why your father trusts you to carry on the family’s legacy.”

Her expression softened briefly, pride flickering across her features. But it was fleeting, replaced by a wariness that told him she hadn’t forgotten who he was—or what she’d seen.

“Mr. Kavanagh,” she began, her tone a touch sharper now, “you’ve been very kind to us, but I have a lot of work to attend to. If there’s nothing else?—”

“There is,” he interrupted smoothly, stepping even closer. He caught the subtle hitch in her breath as his presence crowded hers. “I’d like to schedule a follow-up meeting to discuss some additional opportunities. Perhaps over dinner?”

The question hung in the air, heavy with implied intent.

Isolde hesitated, her eyes flickering with something he couldn’t quite name—defiance, maybe, or curiosity. “I don’t usually mix business with social engagements.”

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Then consider it a professional courtesy.”

The flush in her cheeks deepened, but she held his gaze, unyielding. “I’ll have my assistant coordinate with your office.”

A wry smile touched his lips. She was clever, he’d give her that. But this game was only beginning, and she didn’t yet realize she was playing on his board.

“Looking forward to it,” he murmured, stepping back just enough to let her catch her breath.

As he turned to leave, he caught the faintest scent of her perfume—soft and warm, vanilla laced with something uniquely hers. The curve of her neck, the determined set of her jaw, the way she hid her fear behind a veil of poise—all of it lingered with him as he strode from the office.

He’d come here to eliminate a threat, to assess whether Isolde Fitzwilliam was more liability than intrigue. But now, as the door closed behind him, he realized she was both.

And that only made her more dangerous—and more irresistible.

Later that same day the late afternoon sun cast a golden haze over the city as Callum Kavanagh watched Isolde step out of the Fitzwilliam Foundation’s glass doors. Her ivory blouse glowed inthe waning light, and the gentle sway of her hips as she walked toward the street sent a ripple of something dark and possessive through him. He leaned against the sleek black car parked discreetly across the street, his arms crossed, exuding the quiet menace that came naturally to him.

Against his better judgment, he’d interceded and kept her safe, cleaning up the mess from the dead body. It might not have been the practical thing to do—far from it—but the boss was insistent about not taking the lives of innocents. Keeping Isolde alive, keeping her close, was a risk. But the predator in him had other ideas. He wanted her near, where he could control her every move. And if he was being honest, it wasn’t just about managing a liability. There was something about her—her defiance, her fire—that made his blood run hotter, his focus sharper.

The fact that she was dangerous in her own way only made her more tempting.

Isolde’s gaze flickered with recognition when she spotted him, her steps faltering. For a brief moment, he caught a glimpse of panic before she carefully smoothed her expression into cool neutrality. Brave little thing.

“Mr. Kavanagh,” she said, her tone clipped as she approached. “What are you doing here?”

“Callum,” he corrected, his lips curling into a slow, deliberate smile. “We’re past formalities, don’t you think?”

Her gaze darted around, scanning for witnesses. Smart. But not smart enough.

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