As Rosa stood, frozen, in the entryway of her suite, her pulse began to race with uncertainty.

Could it be?

Was it him?

She wanted to see this fucker's face.

Rosa reached over to flick on the lightswitch. The entire suite lit up, blinding her vision for a moment. As shadows lifted away in the light, it also confirmed her worst suspicions.

Within the same second, his eyes snapped towards hers, his black obsidian to her light amber-gold, their gazes colliding in midair.

Dread ate into the pit of Rosa's stomach.

Him.

Him.

It was definitely him.

The tall, dark bodyguard with the crucifix and rose tattoos.

Even while he sat submissively before her, seemingly unarmed and cornered, dominance still radiated from him in a mesmerizing way. Power, control, and acumen thrummed at the core of his presence, drawing her to him like a soldier to her commander.

He was as handsome and intimidating as she remembered from the nightclub in Marseille, and, apparently, this determined wolf had managed to track down the fictitious and nonexistent lamb, Mademoiselle Adèle Moreau, after all.

Impressive.

Very impressive.

On a whim, she decided to follow his lead and carry on their discussion in English rather than French. The Italian accent in his French sounded abysmal to her ears, anyway.

Rosa smirked at him and cooed, "Are you here to punish me, mon beau?"

"Why," he countered smoothly, "would I punish a woman who has done nothing wrong? Unless, of course, there is a... crime... you wish to confess?"

Rosa bit back her annoyance at his pointed questions.

Did he think she was stupid?

She would deny, deny, deny her crime until the end of time.

Rosa shed Adèle's sweet, sassy act to confront him in her own voice, coolly, calmly, "I have done nothing wrong, and I have nothing to confess. Now, kindly, get the fuck out of my suite."

He challenged, "What if I want to stay?"

Rosa pulled out her Beretta and aimed the barrel directly at his head.

"Then," she growled, "we will be having a very different kind of conversation."

Her weapon didn't seem to faze him at all. His expression remained unbothered, bored even. He leaned back into his chair as though to get more comfortable.

She glowered at him.

This motherfucker was bold.

"I am not here," the man insisted in softer, gentler tones, "to hurt you. Set down your weapon."

"No."

"If I wanted to kill you," he pointed out, "you would be dead already."

Her jaw ticked with indignation.

Because, in a way, he was right.

This bastard had managed to stalk her all the way to Portugal and sneak inside her hotel suite. She didn't know whether to commend him for his competence or to feel offended by her own carelessness.

"Well, I am the one pointing the gun at you now," Rosa reminded him with a confidence that felt somewhat forced, "you should have killed me when you had the chance."

Her outstretched arm remained straight and steady, and the Beretta in her hand didn't waver from its target. Yet, she couldn't help but wonder—

Did she really have the upper hand here?

Was he secretly armed?

The man could very well be packing. Her eyes searched him for outlines of a hidden gun. His perfectly tailored, expensive-looking black suit—Givenchy? Or Tom Ford?—gave away nothing, though.

Also—

Had he come alone?

Or was his ugly blonde partner hiding somewhere else in her suite, waiting to ambush her?

She couldn't say for sure.

Anxiously, Rosa kept her back to the wall and shuffled closer to the door in case she needed to make a quick getaway.

"Is that why you think I came tonight," he drawled, "to kill you?"

"Oui."

"Why would I want to kill you?"

His question made her feel like a fly buzzing around a spider's web. He was baiting her again, trying to trap her into admitting guilt by accident.

Rosa glared. "The fuck if I know! You are probably some kind of deranged psychopath. Or a stalker."

"I am not a stalker," he assured her, "and I have no intention of killing you."

Rosa noticed that, while the man denied being a stalker, he hadn't denied the 'psychopath' part of her accusation.

She spat, "Why are you here, then?"

He finally addressed the elephant in the room, "Because Mr. Lavigne is dead."

Rosa feigned surprise at this news. "Is that so? I suppose, I am sorry for your loss."

His dark eyes narrowed. "I do not know why you would be sorry. I suspect you had something to do with his death."

Rosa proceeded to play dumb, scoffing, "How dare you accuse me of such a thing?"

The man shot her a long, hard look as though to taunt her, to dare her to keep lying, to keep denying, denying, denying...

"Stop with your games," he sighed somewhat wearily.

She protested, "I am not playing games."

His eyebrow lifted. "I know you had everything to do with Mr. Lavigne's death."

"Where is your proof?"

He shrugged. "I do not need proof."

She grunted in disapproval, "Hmm."

He side-eyed her keenly. "There is something you should know before we continue this conversation."

Rosa rolled her eyes to project a façade of nonchalance that she didn't feel, "What might that be?"

He smiled like a wolf. "Signora Rizzo is not the one funding your paycheck—"

Immediately, her brow furrowed with worry.

How did he find out about Valentina?

Rosa eyed him warily as she interrupted, "What are you talking about?"

"Do you know who really hired you to kill Mr. Lavigne?"

She demanded, "Who?

"Me."

Rosa barely managed to suppress her shock, "What?"

His next statement made her gasp, "David Candia is my man. He answers to me, not Signora Rizzo."

"You lie."

"I am not lying," he disputed, "and, if you are willing to continue with our arrangement, I can offer far more than the six installments of €5,000 that we agreed on for Mr. Lavigne."

Rosa wanted to call bullshit on the bastard again, but the fact that he knew all of these insider details—such as David's full name and the exact amount for the disbursements of her €30,000 payment—gave her pause.

Suspicion and doubt clouded her face.

Suddenly, she had questions for this man.

So many fucking questions!

It was time for an interrogation.

A shrewd look passed over her features. "Très bien! Let us assume you are my sponsor, but... your motives are unknown to me, so, I do not trust you."

He chuckled wickedly. "Clever girl. I would not trust me, either."

Rosa tightened her grip on her Beretta.

"If you do not want a bullet in your knee right this moment," she purred dangerously, "give me a reason to trust you."

He tilted his head to the side. "What do you want from me?"

Without missing a beat, Rosa ordered, "Strip down to your underwear."

The man smirked. "I am flattered, but I did not come here to fuck you."

She snorted, "Oh, please! Keep the blood in your brain. I simply want to make sure that you are not armed."

His smirk fell away and his expression became unreadable as he murmured, "I see."

Archly, Rosa prompted, "Start stripping, mon beau. I fear you are losing my interest, and men become very... disposable... when I grow bored of them."

His dark eyes flicked up to find hers once more. "Disposable, you say?"

"Oui."

God, gazing into this man's eyes felt like staring into the devil's soul. Stark, bleak, lifeless, yet, also, hypnotic and alluring in a way that seemed to enthrall to her like black magic.

Rosa's breath hitched against her will.

With some effort, Rosa managed to stand her ground, maintaining a look of indifference on her face, even though her insides were fluttering with anxiety. The man continued to hold her gaze with a new kind of boldness, and a new kind of tension simmered between them. She didn't know whether to be frightened or turned on.

Would he submit to her request?

Or would he pull a gun on her?

Then, he made his intentions known in a soft, compliant voice, "Very well, Miss Lenoir. I will try not to bore you. Have I captured your interest... now?"

The man started shrugging off his blazer and unbuttoning his crisp white dress shirt, revealing tantalizing glimpses of tanned skin, solid muscle, devil-black ink. His physique was truly god-like. She couldn't seem to tear her eyes away. Her heart even skipped a few unruly beats—

From fear?

Or anticipation?

Rosa didn't know, but she felt fucked either way as she watched him undress right in front of her.