Page 12 of His Ruthless Obsession

"Understood," Marco says, already pulling out his phone to make arrangements.

My mind drifts back to Jazz's fierce independence, how she pretends my presence doesn't affect her. But I've seen the way she watches me when she thinks I'm not looking. The slight tremble in her hands when I get too close.

She can fight it all she wants, but she's mine to protect. Whether she likes it or not.

"We're done here." I push back from the table, my decision already made. "Marco, stay on those contacts. The rest of you know what to do."

They file out quickly, years of working together making explanations unnecessary. Only Marco lingers, that knowing look still in his eyes.

"Tell Jazz I say hi." He smirks, ducking out before I can respond.

The drive to the club takes fifteen minutes - enough time for the sun to set and the first wave of patrons to start lining up outside. I slip in through the back entrance, nodding at the security guard who immediately straightens his posture.

The basement office hallway is quiet compared to the throbbing bass above. I pause outside her door, watching through the narrow window.

Jazz sits at her desk, completely absorbed in whatever's on her computer screen. A strand of her curly hair has escaped its updo, and she absently tucks it behind her ear as she types.

The sight of her - so focused, so unguarded - does something to my chest I'd rather not examine too closely. I push the door open without knocking.

"Working late?"

Jazz jumps slightly, but recovers quickly. "Jesus, you need a bell or something."

"Now where's the fun in that?" I cross to her desk, enjoying how she tries to subtly shift away. "What's got you so captivated?"

"Inventory reports." She gestures at the screen. "Someone's been comping too many drinks to their friends. I'm cross-referencing employee shifts with the missing stock."

"And?"

"And I've got a pretty good idea who's been stealing from you." She pulls up a spreadsheet, pointing to highlighted sections. "Your new bartender, Rick? His shifts line up perfectly with the discrepancies."

I lean over her shoulder, breathing in the subtle scent of her perfume. "Look at you, playing detective."

"It's called doing my job." But I catch the pleased note in her voice, the slight lift of her chin.

"Impressive work." A grin pulls at my lips as I watch the way more praise seems to brighten her eyes and soften her expression.

She's so damn beautiful when she's trying to pretend I don't affect her.

Quickly, she drops her head like she realizes what she's doing, and one of her strands falls into her face. Before I can stop myself, I'm leaning across the desk, aching for the slightest touch of her.

Her curls are soft against my fingers as I brush that wayward strand back, letting my touch linger. Jazz stills under my hand, her breath catching. The space between us crackles with tension.

"You know," I murmur, "being this observant could be dangerous in my world."

She tilts her head, meeting my gaze with that defiant spark I can't get enough of. "Are you threatening me?"

"Protecting you." I trace my finger along her jaw. "There are people who wouldn't appreciate such... attention to detail."

"I can handle myself." But her voice wavers slightly as I step around the desk, caging her between my body and the wall.

"Can you?" My hand slides to cup the back of her neck. "Because right now, you're trembling."

"That's not-" She swallows hard. "That's not fear."

"No?" I lean in until our faces are inches apart. "Then what is it, little dove?"

Her fingers grip the edge of the desk, knuckles white. "You know exactly what you're doing."

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