Page 9 of His Scarlette Obsession
“That bakery has been in my family for four generations,” I cut in, the words rushing out before I can stop them. “My grandmother lives in the apartment upstairs. The whole town depends on it as a gathering place. You can’t just tear it down.”
“Actually, I can.” His voice is still perfectly even, perfectly controlled. “That’s the thing about ownership, Miss Hood. It grants certain rights—”
“I don’t understand.” I find myself rising unevenly to my feet as I speak, the folder falling to the floor, photos scattering across his pristine carpet. “There are dozens of other places you could develop. Why Chisa? Why that block?”
“Why not?” His gaze is cool, assessing. “It’s a sound business decision.”
“It’s people’s lives, Sheikh Qahiri.” It terrifies me to hear my voice rising with word. I know this man has the power to destroy my career with a snap of his fingers, but I can’t seem to make myself care. “That bakery isn’t just a building. It’s history. It’s community. It’s—”
“Yours?” he supplies. “Is that what you were going to say?”
I clamp my mouth shut, pulse hammering in my ears.
“Because it’s not, Miss Hood. Not anymore.” He pushes off the desk and steps closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. Close enough that I can smell his cologne, something dark and expensive that makes my stupid traitorous knees go weak again.
“But it could be,” he says softly.
I stare at him, uncomprehending. “What?”
“I want you to marry me.”
He...what?
I must have misheard him.
I must be having some kind of stress-induced auditory hallucination.
But when all he does is stare at me...
“I—what? Are you insane?”
“No.” His eyes never leave mine, dark and intent. “I’m perfectly serious.”
“But that’s—you can’t just—” I’m stammering like an idiot, my brain short-circuiting as it tries to process his words. Where’s the calculating businessman Wall Street worships? The strategic genius who never makes an impulsive move?
How can he not see what he’s proposing is sheer madness?
He’s acting like some kind of villainous wolf from a fairy tale, and he doesn’t even care about being subtle.
Sheikh Qahari takes another step closer, and I instinctively back away.
“This...it doesn’t make sense.” I hate the way my voice quavers...because of how it’s suggesting something else than fear. “You must be joking.”
Something’s changed in his expression, in the way he’s looking at me. Something hungry. Dangerous.
“What do you really want—”
“Excellent question, Ms. Hood.”
The way hepurrsthe words out makes me swallow hard.
“And one I would rather answer by means of a demonstration.”
What in the world does that—
Aaaah!
Lykan
