Kyle's POV
The amethyst silk dress and the deep purple calla lilies were a stunning one-two punch. The color was regal, hinting at a hidden depth of personality, and the dress…with its flowing lines and sophisticated back…was a challenge to my focus.
Tonight, her perfume was stronger…not overpowering, but a rich, warm layer over the cool silk. It was cedar and something floral, more potent in the Parisian air, and it hit me with the force of a sudden memory: the extended hug, the shared moment of vulnerability, the shock of her first name on my tongue feeling different.
In the limousine, I didn't waste time with small talk. I reached into the chilled compartment Marshall had stocked for the drive. I pulled out a perfectly decanted bottle and poured a glass for her.
"I took the liberty of stocking a few familiar comforts," I said, handing her the glass. "I believe this is your preferred Pinot Noir."
She took the glass, her fingers brushing mine. A subtle, appreciative smile touched her lips. "You are offensively observant, Mr. Lodge."
"I merely invest in the intelligence that services me best, Vi," I countered, though the lie felt thin even to my ears.
The drive was short, and the familiar, complex scent of the wine mixing with her perfume was almost unbearable. The amethyst silk was flowing and soft. I could feel the heat radiating off her.
When she settled back, her movements were fluid and comfortable. She shifted slightly, and her left leg rested naturally on my thigh. It wasn't a conscious seduction; it was an act of complete, unguarded comfort and trust born from the emotional breakthroughs of the last two days. She didn't even seem to notice.
I did.
I fought the urge to close the distance, to move my hand up her thigh, to press my lips to the exposed skin of her neck. Tonight, the desire wasn't about control…it was a pure, overwhelming physical craving.
The dinner was held in a private salon overlooking the Tuileries Garden. The conversation was intellectual and dry—literature, publishing ethics, the future of the printed word. I spoke of vision and strategy; she spoke of protocol and legal defense. But the professional facade was constantly cracking.
We were seated next to each other, a heavy velvet tablecloth separating us. Midway through the main course, while discussing the impact of digital media, our hands moved simultaneously toward our wine glasses. Our pinkies brushed.
The contact was instantaneous and electric. She didn't recoil. Instead, her pinkie hooked around mine, a silent, comfortable lock of skin on skin. A casual, intimate truce.
She leaned in slightly, the wine and cedar scent washing over me, and her voice dropped. "The lilies are magnificent, Kyle. Thank you. The color... it was a perfect match."
Hearing her thank me, using my first name, while her finger was entwined with mine, was almost too much. The thought of pulling her close and pressing a desperate kiss to the back of her neck consumed me. I wanted to disrupt the entire elegant dinner, to smash the crystal and claim the woman beside me.
I gripped my wine glass tighter, forcing myself to maintain the professional mask.
"I believe the color suited the drama of the silk," I murmured, my voice dangerously low.
The contact with her pinkie intensified. I needed to move, to break the sensual tension. I slowly, deliberately, placed my left hand onto the silk-covered thigh that was resting on mine.
Her head immediately snapped toward me, her eyes wide with sudden awareness. The comfortable haze of wine and confidence was instantly broken by the physical contact. She felt the weight of my hand—possessive, heavy, unavoidable.
She didn't move her leg. She didn't pull her hand away.
Her breath hitched slightly, and she returned her attention to the publishing editor across the table, maintaining the conversation with flawless professionalism, but I felt the warmth of her body beneath the silk, and the subtle, rhythmic pulse against my palm.
The dinner was no longer about literature. It was a seven-course war of attrition, and my hand on her thigh was the new, unspoken front line.
Viola's POV
The weight of Kyle's hand on my thigh was an insistent, low-frequency hum beneath the polite hum of the dinner conversation. It wasn't a demanding grip, but a casual, proprietary resting—a complete disregard for the professional boundaries I was still, technically, fighting to maintain. The amethyst silk, the intoxicating scent of the lilies, the Pinot Noir... it was a deliberate sensory overload, and I was dangerously close to capitulating to the delicious chaos of it all.
My pinkie was still hooked around his, an impossible intimacy maintained while I discussed the legal framework of trans-European publishing contracts. It felt utterly surreal. One part of me was the sharp, ruthless Head of Editorial Integrity; the other was a woman acutely aware of the warmth of his hand, the rhythmic press of his thumb against the velvet, and the sheer audacity of the entire situation.
When the dinner finally concluded, the relief was palpable. The four of us—Kyle, myself, the publisher, and the editor—stood, and the spell was broken. His hand lifted, and the sudden coolness on my thigh left a phantom impression of heat.
"A most enlightening evening, Mr. Lodge," the editor was saying, shaking Kyle's hand.
"Indeed," Kyle replied smoothly, his eyes, however, fixed on me.
We were alone in the limousine for the final ride back to The Langham. The air was charged, thick with the unspoken consequence of the evening. I sat by the window, adjusting the flowing silk of my gown, suddenly self-conscious about the way I'd let my guard down.
"That was a highly effective evening, Vi," Kyle said, his voice quiet in the dark car. "The intellectual weight you bring to these events is invaluable."
"I am merely serving the asset, Kyle," I responded, but the defense was weak. I hadn't even called him 'Mr. Lodge.' The formality was gone, replaced by a perilous familiarity.
I took a deep breath, the subtle scent of my perfume—cedar, now softened by wine and the lingering sweetness of the lilies—filling the space. I looked over at him. His tie was loosened slightly, his posture relaxed, yet his gaze was intense, focused solely on me.
"You are relentless," I confessed, the words escaping before I could filter them. "The lilies... the wine... the typewriter. You create chaos just to see how I'll navigate it."
He didn't deny it. He simply smiled, a low, dangerous curve of his lips. "And you navigate chaos better than anyone I've ever known. It's why I need you close."
The word need struck me. It wasn't the need of an employer for an employee; it was the raw, possessive need of a man completely consumed.
The car pulled up to The Langham. I was suddenly desperate to escape the enclosed space, to return to the safety of my room and the silent counsel of the purple lilies.
"Thank you for the evening," I said quickly, reaching for the door handle.
But Kyle's hand was there first. He opened the door, then stepped out and offered his hand to assist me. I took it, the amethyst silk swirling around my legs as I exited the car.
We walked through the opulent lobby, the marble floors cool beneath my heels, and rode the elevator in a heavy, pregnant silence.
In the hallway, outside my door, I reached for the handle.
"Viola," he said, his voice just above a whisper.
I turned. He was standing close, dangerously close. He reached out, not to touch my arm or my hand, but to gently graze the delicate, exposed skin of my shoulder where the silk strap rested.
"Your dress," he murmured, his eyes dark. "It's... a perfect expression of control."
I felt my breath catch in my throat. I had to end this. Now. Before the next, inevitable boundary was crossed.
I took a deliberate step back, putting my hand on the cool metal of the doorknob. "Goodnight, Kyle."
"Goodnight, Vi," he replied, his voice a low, gravelly promise.
He didn't move until I was safely inside and the latch clicked shut. I leaned against the door, my heart pounding, my skin tingling where his fingertips had brushed my shoulder. I had fought for my freedom all week, and yet, I was starting to realise that the most thrilling cage was the one he built entirely out of purple lilies and shared silence.
I crossed the room, my gaze falling on the elegant arrangement of purple calla lilies. They were beautiful, but I needed something real, something grounded.
I grabbed my phone and quickly pulled up the secure browser. I placed a second order on the black corporate card, a small, practical, and yet entirely necessary purchase: A set of noise-canceling headphones.
I needed to drown out the sound of his voice—and the terrifying sound of my own internal surrender—before Paris completely broke my composure. The war was still on, but I needed a weapon to fight the enemy within.