Page 20 of His Ruthless Claim

"Careful." Sophia glances around, her diamond earrings catching the light. "You know what happened to Gino when he questioned the new leadership."

The conversation dies as my bell chimes again. They scatter to different racks, suddenly absorbed in silk blouses and evening wear. The whispers fade to mundane chatter about hemlines and seasonal colors, but the tension lingers like smoke in still air.

I do everything I can not to think about him as the rest of the women make it harder and harder for me to ignore that I think I know who Mr. Dangerous is. Even if I don't want to.

By the time they all leave, the sunset bleeds orange through my boutique windows and I start my closing routine. The register's quiet hum fills the empty space while I count today's earnings. A shadow falls across the counter.

I don't need to look up to know it's him. The temperature seems to drop ten degrees. But again, I feel no fear.

"We're technically closed." I keep my tone light, professional.

He moves into the shop like he owns it. His presence fills the space differently now - there's a new weight to his steps, a sharper edge to his perfectly pressed suit. The watch gleams on his wrist as he approaches my counter.

"I need a tie." His voice carries no inflection.

"Most people do for funerals." The words slip out before I can stop them. I snap my head up, not wanting him to confirm or deny anything. "A lot of women in here today had come from a funeral. Don't know what I was thinking when I said that."

His ice blue eyes fix on me. No change in expression, but something shifts in the air between us. I resist the urge to step back.

"Black seems appropriate." I move toward the tie display, hyperaware of his gaze tracking my movements. "Though I'm thinking burgundy might suit you better. Add some color to that whole emotionless robot thing you've got going."

The corner of his mouth twitches - so slight I almost miss it. "You talk too much."

"And you talk too little. We all have our flaws." I hold up two options. "Though I suppose being a conversationalist isn't high on the priority list for..." I trail off, remembering who I'm speaking to. I don't need to get to know him.

"For what?" His voice carries a dangerous edge.

I meet his stare. "For someone who looks like they're calculating how many bodies could fit in my storage room."

He steps closer. I can smell his expensive cologne, see the perfect knot of his current tie. "Four, if you're curious. Five if they're small."

A shiver runs down my spine, but I force a smile. "See? That's what I mean. Most people would laugh at a joke like that."

"I wasn't joking." He takes the burgundy tie from my hands, his fingers brushing mine. They're ice cold. "This one."

I wrap the burgundy silk with practiced motions, but my attention stays fixed on his hands. His right thumb keeps brushing over the face of that silver watch. One, two, three times in the span of a minute. The gesture seems almost compulsive today, like a tell he can't quite control.

"You said it was your grandfather's?" I tap my own wrist, nodding at the antique timepiece. "Family heirloom then?"

His fingers still. "It keeps time."

"Most watches do." I fold crisp tissue paper around the tie. "But most people don't check them like they're counting down to something."

Those ice blue eyes lock onto mine. The emptiness in them should frighten me, but instead I find myself wanting to crack that perfect facade. To see what lies beneath all that careful control.

"You notice too much." His voice carries no inflection, but his thumb strokes the watch face again.

"Professional hazard." I slide the wrapped package across the counter. "Can't dress people properly if you don't pay attention to details."

When he reaches for the tie, our fingers brush again. That same electric current shoots through my skin, and this time I catch it - the slight dilation of his pupils, the barely perceptible catch in his breathing. Gone in an instant, buried beneath layers of cold precision, but it was there.

"Speaking of details," I lean forward, deliberately invading his space. "Your left cuff is a millimeter higher than your right."

He doesn't move back. "Is it?"

"No." A smile plays at my lips. "But you just checked. Interesting that someone so controlled would care about something so small."

His jaw tightens - another microscopic tell. "Goodnight, Miss Calloway."

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