“You said he doesn’t love you.”

“He doesn’t.”

I raise a brow and point at the wadded-up letter. “Sounds like he does.”

“He’s clearly an odd man. He might be crazy for all I know. And he’s trying to manipulate me. He thinks he can charm me with pretty knickers and words, as if that will send me running back into his arms.” She shakes her head adamantly. “I never was in his arms, which only made him angry. He thinks I’m daft. I’m not. But, hey, I got some pretty knickers out of it. I’ll wear them for you sometime.”

“Fuck that.” The words are harsh, even to my own ears, but I don’t care. “You won’t wear any of that. You’ll burn it.”

“Do you have any idea how much this likely cost?”

“I don’t give a flying fuck how much it cost. You won’t be wearing lingerie that another man bought for you when you’re with me. Sell it on eBay. Regift it. I don’t care. But you won’t ever touch it again.”

She blinks slowly, watching me. “You’re jealous.”

“Fuck that.”

“You’re completely jealous.”

We could be caught at any moment. I have staff on-site, and any of them could walk in. But I stalk closer to her, cup her chin firmly, and move one inch from her face when I say, “You’re damn right, I’m jealous, Princess. As long as my hands are on you, no other man will even try to get close to you. You told him no. That means no. So, no, I don’t give a shit how much this cost. You’ll get rid of it. And if this guy won’t leave you alone, I’ll be calling the London office to have him dealt with.”

“Possessive,” she murmurs, watching my lips. Her eyes are dilated.

“Damn right.”

I back away before I do something stupid like throw her over my shoulder, carry her up to my bedroom, and have my way with her naked body.

“Oh, this is the box I’ve been waiting for,” she says, rooting around in the parcel with the fabric samples and glasses. “Brilliant. I’ll just take these things back to my flat. I have plenty of work to do this afternoon. By the way, are you going out with Sam this evening?”

“No.”

“You should go.”

“I said no.”

“Liam, you’ve been stuck to me like glue for more than a week now. I’m safe here with the staff. Take a couple of hours to enjoy your friends. That’s not a request, it’s an order, as I’m still the boss here while Sebastian’s gone.”

She winks and turns to walk back to her apartment. I watch her head down the path, her ass swaying seductively. She disappears inside the boathouse, and I turn back to the mail.

I’d actually like to go and spend some time with Sam. But I don’t like the idea of leaving her. The men on my staff are all trustworthy. She’ll be safe.

But no one can keep her as safe as I can.

I’m a fucking control freak.

* * *

I’m going. Against my better judgement, I’m going out with the guys for a couple of hours. I’ve given my men strict orders, and they know there will be hell to pay if even one hair on Ellie’s head is out of place when I get back.

She didn’t hear me walk into the boathouse and up the stairs. She’s sitting at the table with her back to me, her laptop open, and the contents from the large box spread out over the surface.

“No, I want silk,” she says, and I realize she’s talking to someone on speakerphone.

“Miss, there weren’t any silk options in that color,” a woman says. “That was as close as we could get.”

“Well, that’s simply unacceptable,” Ellie replies cooly. “We have one month until the event, and I’m quite sure you can find silk linens somewhere on this Earth before then. In oatmeal, not cream.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Keep me posted.”

She taps her phone and then sits back with a sigh, rubbing her temples. I see her hair is disheveled.

She’s wearing barely-there yoga shorts and a tank. It drives me fucking crazy when she wears that outfit. She might as well be naked for all the good it does covering her tight little body.

“Tired?” I ask as I approach. Her head whips around, and a smile spreads over her drawn features.

“I thought you would have left by now.”

“I wanted to check in before I go.” I kiss the top of her head and knead her shoulders. She sighs and melts into my touch. “Rough day?”

“All of this is wrong,” she murmurs. “I gave specific instructions, and they ignored me. So, they can start over.”

“What’s it all for? A party?”

“A gala fundraiser for the children’s hospital,” she murmurs and groans when my thumbs dig up her neck to the ridge on the back of her head. “And I want it to be perfect. When guests feel particularly pampered, they’re more likely to donate additional money. And those kids can use every pence they can get.”

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