Page 8 of His Obsession

“Because you’re infuriating,” she shot back, her voice trembling slightly despite her best efforts.

He chuckled, the sound low and rich, and Isolde hated the way it sent a ripple of heat through her. “Careful, Isolde. You’re starting to sound like you care.”

Her hand clenched into a fist, but she forced herself to take a steadying breath, determined not to let him bait her. “This meeting is over,” she said, her voice cold.

“Not yet,” he replied, stepping back just enough to give her space to breathe. His keen eyes glittered with amusement and something more dangerous as he folded his arms. “There’s one more thing we need to discuss.”

“What now?” she asked, exasperated.

He tilted his head slightly, his expression softening, though it did little to lessen the intensity of his gaze. “I owe you an apology,” he said.

The unexpected statement caught her off guard. “An apology?”

“I underestimated you,” he said, his tone laced with a grudging respect. “I assumed you were just another sheltered heiress playing at charity work. But I’ve done my research, love. The foundation has flourished under your leadership, but I wonder what your uptight donors would say if they knew you had guest privileges at Baker Street in London?”

Her breath caught, her mind scrambling for a response. Baker Street was a discreet, exclusive club, one where anonymity and trust were paramount. The fact that Callum knew about her connection to it sent a chill racing down her spine.

“How do you know about my privileges at Baker Street?” she demanded, her voice sharper than she intended.

His smile returned, though it was softer this time, almost appreciative. “I make it my business to know things. Especially about people who interest me.”

Isolde’s pulse hammered in her ears. “I don’t interest you.”

“You interest me more than you should,” he said simply, the honesty in his tone catching her off guard. “And that’s why you should be careful, Isolde. Because the more I learn about you, the more I want to see how far you’ll let me push you.”

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and dangerous. She wanted to tell him to leave, to slam the door on whatever game he thought he was playing. But the part of her that should have been running screamed at her to stay, to stand her ground.

“You don’t scare me,” she said finally, though her voice faltered at the end.

“Don’t I?” Callum asked, his voice soft but laced with steel. He stepped closer again, and Isolde’s breath hitched as the heat of his body radiated against hers. “Maybe you should be scared, love. Or maybe you should be honest with yourself about why you’re not. Fear can be, after all, something of an aphrodisiac.”

Before she could respond, the door to her office creaked open slightly, and her assistant poked her head in, her polite smile faltering when she saw how close they were. “Ms. Fitzwilliam, your next appointment is here.”

Isolde stepped back quickly, her face flaming as she turned to her desk. “Thank you, Evelyn. I’ll be right out.”

The door closed again, leaving her alone with Callum, who hadn’t moved an inch.

“This isn’t over,” he said quietly, his dark gaze locking with hers one last time.

Then he turned and strode to the door, leaving her standing in the golden light, her hands trembling and her heart racing.

As the door clicked shut, Isolde pressed her palms to the desk, willing her breathing to steady. She told herself she hated him, that his presence was nothing more than a threat she needed to eliminate. But deep down, she knew the truth.

It wasn’t hate that made her pulse race. It was the dangerous allure of a man who could unravel her carefully ordered world with nothing more than a touch.

4

CALLUM

Callum was watching from the shadows of the alley across the street when Isolde exited the building, flanked by Ted Walsh, the head of the foundation’s security team. He must have rattled her more than he’d thought. But if she thought the former cop would be able to protect her from him, she had another thought coming.

He smiled as he followed them to The Celestial Stag, the crown jewel of the O’Neill Organization’s legitimate ventures in Dublin. Con always liked to mix legitimate and not-so-legitimate businesses in the same city to keep the cops and Interpol on their toes.

He entered the restaurant via the back entrance and was seated in his private booth before Isolde was shown to a table with an older gentleman he recognized. James Fitzwilliam, Isolde’s father. Walsh had all the subtlety of a freight train as he took up a post close to their table with his back against the wall, scanning the restaurant before taking a seat at a nearby table.

The rich aroma of roasted lamb hung in the air, mingling with the faint scent of truffle oil and freshly baked bread. The restaurant was an oasis of polished marble, subdued lighting, and understated elegance, its exclusivity a magnet for Dublin’selite. Callum’s dark gaze wasn’t on the gleaming chandeliers or the impeccably dressed servers gliding between tables, though. His attention was fixed across the room, where Isolde sat with her father.

James Fitzwilliam carried himself with the calm assurance of old money, his every movement deliberate, his tailored suit impeccable. He was a man who knew his place in the world—and worked hard to maintain it. Isolde, seated beside him, looked every inch the perfect daughter, her ivory blouse and emerald-green skirt accentuating her poise. But Callum wasn’t fooled by outward appearances.

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