Page 11 of His Obsession

He told himself his growing obsession with her was purely practical. She was a loose end—a witness to a crime she should never have seen—and now a potential pawn in Eoin Lynch’s games. Protecting her was about protecting Con’s interests, nothing more.

But even as he tried to convince himself, the image of her fiery defiance lingered in his mind. He could still feel the heat of her skin beneath his fingers, the electric jolt of her presence.

Callum stood, adjusting his suit jacket as he cast one last glance around the restaurant before crossing the dining roomand stepping into the night, the cool Dublin air doing little to calm the storm brewing inside him.

If Lynch thought he could use Isolde, in any way, he was in for a rude awakening.

And if she thought she could stay out of Callum’s reach, she was about to learn just how tightly he intended to keep her under his control.

Some obsessions, after all, weren’t meant to be tamed.

5

ISOLDE

The soft glow of recessed lights bathed Siobhan Harrington’s art gallery in a lovely, warm light, casting long shadows across the eclectic collection of paintings and sculptures. The scent of old books and leather lingered in the air, mingling with the faint tang of red wine. She and Siobhan had been friends since boarding school. Isolde sat on the edge of a plush armchair in Siobhan’s private office, her fingers tracing the cool rim of her wine glass as she tried to gather her thoughts.

“This isn’t like you,” Siobhan said, her voice smooth and measured as she reclined on the antique settee across from Isolde. Her auburn hair caught the light, framing her sharp, curious eyes. “You’re distracted. And not by work.”

Isolde forced a smile, lifting the glass to her lips and taking a small sip. The wine was bold, earthy, but it did little to steady the unease twisting in her stomach.

“It’s nothing,” she said, keeping her tone light. “Just… a long week.”

Siobhan raised an arched brow, setting her own glass down on the low table between them. “A long week doesn’t send yourushing here after hours with that look on your face. What’s going on, Isolde?”

Isolde hesitated, her thumb brushing over the rim of her glass. The memory of the bouquet she’d received that morning surfaced, unbidden. Sterling silver roses, their petals cool to the touch, had arrived at her office with a note tucked neatly inside:

Tell your shadow, Ted Walsh, to be on the lookout for Eoin Lynch. He’s taken an interest in your foundation. And in you.

–C

The message had sent her heart into a frenzy, not just because of the warning but because of who it had come from. Callum. The man who seemed to delight in unraveling her carefully constructed life, one deliberate move at a time.

“You can trust me, you know,” Siobhan said, leaning forward, her voice softer now. “Whoever he is, whatever this is, I won’t judge. Just tell me.”

Isolde’s head snapped up, her amber eyes meeting Siobhan’s. “What makes you think this is about a man?”

Siobhan’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “Because you only get that look when someone’s under your skin. And judging by the frenetic energy radiating off you, he’s either infuriating, irresistible, or both.”

Heat crept up Isolde’s neck, and she set her glass down with a little more force than necessary. “It’s complicated.”

“I’m sure it is,” Siobhan replied, her tone dry but not unkind. “But you’re not here for platitudes. Talk to me, Isolde. What’s he done?”

Isolde exhaled, her fingers lacing together in her lap. “He’s… persistent. Intrusive. He’s made it clear he’s not going anywhere, and he’s tangled up in things I can’t even begin to unravel.”

“Dangerous things?” Siobhan pressed, her expression sharpening.

“I don’t know,” Isolde lied, hating how easily the words slipped out. She couldn’t tell Siobhan the truth—not about Callum’s connection to the O’Neill organization, not about the warning in his note, not about the way he made her feel, and certainly not about the way they’d met.

Siobhan studied her for a long moment; there was a certain gravitas in her gaze. “You’re leaving something out.” Isolde’s lips parted, a protest forming, but Siobhan held up a hand. “Don’t deny it. I’ve known you too long. Whoever this man is, he’s more than just an inconvenience. He’s gotten under your skin, and you don’t know how to handle it.”

Isolde’s throat tightened, her hands gripping the armrests of her chair. “I’m handling it,” she said, her voice sharper than she intended.

Siobhan’s brow furrowed, but she didn’t push further. Instead, she reached for her wine glass, taking a slow sip before setting it down again. “You know I’m here if you need anything. Advice, a distraction, a place to hide a body—whatever you need.”

A startled laugh escaped Isolde, breaking through the anxiety that had settled over her. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Siobhan smiled, but her gaze remained watchful. “Just be careful. Men like that are—persistent, intrusive—they don’t usually stop until they get what they want.”

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