Page 9 of His Obsession

Her body language was stiff, her movements guarded, as though she were bracing herself against something unseen. The candlelight caught the coppery strands in her dark chestnut hair, highlighting the rigidity in her shoulders. She wasn’t entirely at ease.

Good.

The clink of glasses and murmur of quiet conversations masked any sound from their table, but Callum didn’t need to hear their words to understand the dynamics at play. James leaned in, speaking softly, his hand gesturing toward the file resting on the table between them. Isolde nodded, her face a carefully controlled mask of neutrality.

“Ted Walsh looks uncomfortable,” Padraig Byrne, the organization’s tech wizard and head of their money laundering division, muttered as he joined Callum.

Callum’s lips twitched in a faint smile. He’d noticed.

Walsh was seated one table away, his sharp eyes scanning the room with the restless energy of a man who’d spent too many years in law enforcement. Every few seconds, his gaze darted toward the Fitzwilliam table, then swept over the rest of the diners, lingering on the entrances and exits.

Callum tapped his fingers against the edge of his glass of Guiness, his eyes narrowing. “He’s a liability.”

“Not an immediate one,” Padraig said, leaning back against the leather booth. “He’s former Scotland Yard. Sharp, but he knows better than to poke his nose into the wrong business. At least for now.”

Callum’s gaze returned to Isolde. She shifted in her seat, her lips curving into a faint smile at something her father said, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. It was practiced, polite. The memory of her fire—her sharp tongue, her flushed cheeks, the way her breath hitched when he got too close—flickered in his mind, and his smile deepened.

“She doesn’t want to be here,” Callum murmured.

Padraig followed his gaze, frowning slightly. “Her father’s making a point. Showing her off, maybe, or reasserting control. Family dynamics are messy at that level.”

Callum could feel his muscles stiffen as his attention snagged on the way James leaned toward Isolde, his voice lowering. Her expression shifted subtly—annoyance, perhaps, or defiance buried beneath a carefully neutral mask.

“James Fitzwilliam doesn’t reassert control without reason,” Callum said quietly, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “And she doesn’t yield without a fight.”

Padraig arched a brow. “You’re watching too closely. If Fitzwilliam notices, he’ll start asking questions.”

“Let him,” Callum said, his voice cold. “He’s not the one I’m interested in.”

A server approached their booth, bowing slightly as she placed a plate of roasted lamb before Callum. The aroma intensified, rich and heady, but his appetite had already shifted.

From across the room, Isolde’s gaze lifted, her eyes scanning the restaurant. The moment her gaze locked on Callum’s, her body tensed visibly.

She didn’t look away.

Good girl.

Callum held her gaze, raising his glass slightly in a silent toast. He saw the flicker of surprise in her expression, followed by something darker, more conflicted. She broke eye contact, looking down at her plate, but her composure had already cracked.

Padraig chuckled softly. “I think you just ruined her evening.”

“Not yet,” Callum said, his voice low and dangerous. “But I will.”

Walsh’s sharp gaze turned toward their booth, his brow furrowing as he caught Callum’s lingering attention on Isolde. Callum met his stare without flinching, his expression unreadable. Walsh shifted slightly, his hand brushing against the edge of his jacket—a subtle movement that suggested he was armed.

Callum smiled, leaning back in his seat. Walsh’s instincts were good, but they wouldn’t be enough.

“You’re going to provoke him,” Padraig warned.

“He’s irrelevant,” Callum replied, his tone dismissive. “She’s the one who matters.”

Across the room, James Fitzwilliam rose, placing a hand on Isolde’s shoulder as he spoke to her. She nodded, glancing toward Walsh before picking up her clutch. Callum watched her move, her steps graceful but deliberate as she followed her father toward the exit.

The moment she passed his booth, Callum reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against her arm.

She froze.

“Ms. Fitzwilliam,” he said softly, his voice carrying just enough gravitas to make her pause.

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