Page 179 of Surfer's Paradise

She flushed, heat blooming under her collarbone.

He kissed her temple—soft, reverent—then her hair, careful not to smudge her lipstick. His hand slipped a little lower on her back. “All I can think about is dragging you out of here and fucking you against that glass wall.”

Her knees nearly gave out.

“But I won’t,” he growled. “Because you’ve worked your ass off for this. So I’ll behave. For now.”

Her breath hitched.

God. Him. In a suit. Saying things like that.

She reached up to touch his jaw, but—

A voice cut through the air.

“There she is.”

Rosie turned.

Greg Taylor.

Sleek. Sharp. Tall, with silver at his temples and a tailored navy jacket that probably cost more than her entire wardrobe. Billionaire. Patron. Savior of the night. And right now—very interested in her.

He was smiling warmly. “Rosalie. You’re glowing.”

Isaac’s arm tightened.

Rosie felt the entire moment shift.

And everything inside her whispered: oh no.

Chapter 35

This wasn’t his fucking world.

Dim lighting, sculptural shit everywhere, people who smelled like money and thought whispers passed for conversation. Isaac leaned against a concrete pillar near the back of the main room, nursing a whiskey that tasted like expensive cologne. His ribs still ached, tight under his suit jacket, but not as tight as his jaw.

Across the room, Rosie glowed.

Lit from the inside. Spun gold and candlelight, black silk hugging her curves like it was born there. Her dark hair curled soft over her shoulders, red lips curving politely as she fielded questions from art critics, gallery owners, maybe even a buyer or two.

She was trying to play it cool, but he knew her. Knew her breath pattern. The tilt of her shoulders. That half-second pause beforeshe answered. She was overwhelmed—but goddamn, she was holding her own.

And she looked fucking unbelievable doing it.

Isaac took a long pull from his glass, heat in his chest that had nothing to do with the alcohol. He should’ve been proud. He was proud. But pride twisted with something darker, meaner. He was watching her be admired, consumed, picked apart with careful eyes. Every man who stepped into her orbit got cataloged in his head. Tall guy in glasses? Too close. Curator with the skinny tie? Too handsy. Young art dealer with the fucking smirk? Definitely said something out of pocket.

Every time someone leaned in, Isaac’s fists itched.

He hadn’t said much since they got here. Too much energy going into not going full recon mode on this room. Too much control burned into his jaw, his stance. The instincts in him were loud tonight—too loud. Protect. Secure. Eliminate threats.

And then—

Greg Taylor.

Custom suit. Polished shoes. Handsome in that rich-man way that meant nothing but power. He approached Rosie with the confidence of a man who knew he was welcome. Isaac saw it happen like a sniper spotting movement downrange.

Greg laid a hand on her shoulder.

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