“I think that wraps up this meeting, ladies and gentlemen,” Rafe said, glancing down at his watch. “If you’ll excuse me, I have an urgent appointment to get to.”

The curtain would go up in twenty minutes and it was going to take a miracle for him to get there in time. Shit. He should have ended this fucking meeting a hell of a lot sooner.

The members of the board began gathering up papers, the low hum of conversation filling the boardroom. Already people were hovering around nearby, waiting to talk to him. Sadly they were going to be shit out of luck.

Rafe glanced at his older brother, Lorenzo, his CFO now that their father had stepped down. “Handle those, would you?” Rafe glanced pointedly at the line of people. “I have somewhere I have to be.”

Lorenzo’s gray eyes were cool. “Try not to let power go to your head too much, Rafael,” he commented dryly. “I’m not your personal slave.”

Rafe plastered on his usual charming smile, trying to curb his impatience. Normally he had no problems with it, but today was the opening night for Ella’s ballet company’s fairy tale production, and he did not want to be late. His secretary had managed to find out about the program, and Ella’s Little Red Riding Hood segment was scheduled right after the intermission, which meant if he wanted to get there in time, he had to leave now.

“Of course not,” he said. “I forgot the magic word, didn’t I? How would ‘please’ work?”

Lorenzo’s gaze narrowed, searching Rafe’s face—though what he was trying to find Rafe had no idea. After a moment he said, “Fine. I’ll deal with them.”

“Thank you.” Rafe inclined his head, trying not to be too exaggerated and sarcastic about it, then pushed back his chair and got to his feet.

The gathering of people around him pressed forward.

“My brother will take questions,” Rafe said, widening his smile. “If you’ll forgive me, I have urgent ballet reservations.”

Everyone instantly made way for him, since most board members were culture fanatics, and nothing was worse than being late for the ballet.

Ignoring the familiar and unwelcome restlessness that coiled and shifted inside him, Rafael strode out of the boardroom and headed straight for the elevators.

He’d thought a lot about where and when he’d contact Ella again, finally deciding that the opening night of her production was the perfect time for his next move. It gave her a week to think about him. To think about that kiss and her own reaction to it. A week to get all worked up and really, really pissed about it.

At least, he hoped she’d be pissed. He wanted her angry, wanted color in her pale cheeks and silver sparks in her gray eyes. Not hesitant or scared or distant. No, angry was far preferable to scared.

As for himself, he’d spent the week dealing with the fallout of his father’s forced retirement, which involved lots of meetings with the board and the various other management groups that controlled DS Corp. Everyone was more than happy with his assuming the role of CEO, which he’d never had any doubts about since he’d spent years making sure he was everyone’s favorite de Santis.

It was very, very satisfying to finally take over his father’s massive office in the iconic DS Corp Tower in Downtown Manhattan. Just as it was very, very satisfying to hear from most DS Corp management teams how excited they were to work with him and how the company had been long overdue for a leadership change.

Rafe had thought Lorenzo might have had something to say about his younger brother’s promotion to CEO. But it turned out that Lorenzo had no interest in running the company. He was far too busy playing happy families with his new wife, Kira.

Yes, very satisfying indeed to have taken his father down then taken control of the company. Now all he needed to make everything absolutely fucking perfect was Ella.

The elevator doors opened and he headed through DS Tower’s huge, vaulted glass foyer to the exit. Outside, the streets were icy and there was snow in the air, but Clive had the limo at the curb already, waiting for him.

“I need to be at the theater in ten,” Rafe said as he got in. “Can you do it?”

“Of course, sir,” Clive said briskly, as he pulled away into traffic as soon as Rafe had got himself settled.

As the car moved through the icy streets, Rafe found himself drumming his fingers on his knees, a habit he’d thought he’d broken himself of years ago. With an effort, he tried to straighten his fingers and lay them flat, but the moment he did so, the antsy, restless feeling got worse.

Jesus, what the hell was the matter with him? He was impatient, yes, and it was true that he’d never missed one of Ella’s performances, but he’d gone years without any of those reflexive, involuntary movements, so why he’d apparently lost control now was anyone’s guess.

Annoyed with himself, he took the skin between his thumb and forefinger, pinching hard, using the pain to focus himself. It was a pity he didn’t have his pocketknife with him, but he preferred to use it where there were bathroom facilities nearby since he didn’t like getting blood on his clothing. When it dried, it made the fabric harden, which made it unpleasant to wear, as he had good reason to know.

The pain of the pinch was slight, but it was enough that the antsy feeling ebbed away and he was able to let his fingers rest quietly on his thigh. It would be much better soon anyway, the moment Ella came out onto the stage in fact.

Clive was as good as his word, proving every cent of the extortionate amount Rafe paid him as he expertly navigated the heavy traffic, pulling up outside the theater a whole five minutes before the intermission was due to end.

“You’ve just earned yourself a raise,” Rafe told him as he got out, grinning at his driver’s surprised look.

Inside the theater, people were still milling around and chatting, several of them glancing in his direction as he entered, then doing a double take as they no doubt recognized him. Rafe ignored them, heading toward the balcony. The usher—who’d been notified to expect him—greeted him, showing him to his usual seat, which was at the back on the balcony. He usually bought up the entire row and the one in front so he could sit there by himself and not be disturbed. Of course, the better seats were the ones in front, but he preferred to watch unseen.

People began to file in and then the house lights dimmed and the music began.

He sat completely motionless, the familiar anticipation rising inside him as the spotlight came on. And then there she was in a white tutu with red silk ballet shoes, the red velvet cloak thrown over her, a wicker basket held in one hand. Her face was upturned and the expression on it was one of complete joy—Little Red Riding Hood out for a walk enjoying the beauty of the woods.

The restless, edgy thing inside him went still. Everything inside him went still. The pain was a distant memory, the need to move utterly gone. The entirety of his attention was focused on her, every movement she made, every expression on her face. Beauty and grace. Strength and control. Perfection.

He leaned forward, putting his arms on the seat in front of him, watching her. If only he’d had these memories in his head when things had gotten bad at his grandfather’s. When he’d been locked in the root cellar, in the darkness, with nothing but silence to keep him company. No one to talk to. No one to hear him as he cried. He wasn’t allowed out until he’d been quiet for a whole hour, though he had no way of measuring the time.

It had been hell, but he knew why his grandfather had done that to him. It was so he could learn how to bear darkness and silence and isolation. So he could learn how to wait.

Greatness isn’t achieved without pain, his grandfather would tell him. Do you want to be great or do you want to stay the violent little boy that nobody wanted? Do you want to stay broken?

A stupid question. Of course he wanted to be great, who wouldn’t? And of course he wanted not to be broken.

Yeah, the root cellar had been bad, but once he’d figured out that screaming himself hoarse wouldn’t get him out, he’d had to find another way to bear it. And he’d done that by going over childhood memories, of times when he’d been happy. There hadn’t been many since neither his mother or his father had been terribly interested in him, both of them not wanting to deal with a difficult child who had no control over his own emotions. But there were a few. Like when the Harts had visited and they’d let him take Ella outside and give her a ride on his shoulders around the garden. How she’d shrieked with delight, her little hands holding onto his hair. She was the only person who’d never been afraid of him. Even the other boys at his exclusive prep school were terrified of him and his wild outbursts, but not her. He never knew why.

Maybe that was another thing he should ask her. Then again, she didn’t remember anything of that time, did she?

On the stage, Ella leapt as if she had wings, soaring high into the air seemingly weightless. Behind one of the trees on the set, there was a movement, the wolf finally getting ready to appear.

Anticipation tightened in Rafe’s gut. Now things were going to get interesting.

It was a superb piece. He lost track of time, lost himself in the magic of it. Ella and her wolf. The choreography was original, taking the angle of a love story. Red Riding Hood is first pursued by the wolf, but as the intimacy deepened between them, she became the pursuer, chasing the suddenly frightened wolf.

He couldn’t look away as she eventually ran the wolf down, the expression of tenderness on her bright face almost more than he could bear. There was no happy ending in this ballet though, the wolf getting killed by the huntsman before Red Riding Hood could reach him.

The tenderness and hope on Ella’s face became sorrow, and it made Rafe’s heart get tight in his chest, made him want to get up from his seats and charge up to the stage, enfold her in his arms, and take her away. Make sure she’d never feel that emotion ever again.

Ah, Christ, if she ever found out how much power she had over him . . . not that she ever would. He’d never give that kind of weapon to anyone. Ever.

The ballet finished to thunderous applause, but Rafe didn’t stay to watch the other fairy tales. He went outside to answer the plethora of phone messages that had appeared on his phone while he’d been watching Ella, then to check his emails. The work of a billionaire CEO of a giant defense company was never done.

When the entire production had ended and he’d checked with the theater manager that his wishes had been followed to the letter, he waited as the audience filed out. Precisely fifteen minutes after the curtain had come down, the manager found him and led him backstage to the dressing rooms.

In the narrow corridors behind the stage, dancers were moving hurriedly in the opposite direction, some still with makeup on and their hair pulled tightly back, glancing wide-eyed as he strode past. Excellent. As Ella didn’t have a dressing room to herself, he’d specified that he wanted no one else in it after the performance.

“Here you are, sir.” The theater manager gestured to the door of the dressing room.

“Thank you.” Rafe gave the man his trademark smile. “Please make sure we’re not disturbed.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Rafe waited until the man had gone, then raised his hand to knock. Then he shook his head, his smile turning feral.

And he pushed open the door.

* * *

Ella sat in front of the huge dressing room mirror, her hands in her lap, her heart thundering behind her breastbone. She hadn’t been nervous at all before the performance—she never was—but now . . . Oh, now it was a different story.

The instructions she’d been given by Deb, the manager of her company, had been very clear. She was to stay in costume after the performance and had to wait in the dressing room for the arrival of a very “special” visitor.

It had been a strange request, especially when Deb wasn’t able to tell her who the special visitor was, only that he was an anonymous and extremely generous patron whom they couldn’t afford to piss off. The company needed all the cash it could get and if that meant Ella had to personally greet a “fan” and spend a couple of minutes with him, then that’s what she had to do.

It wasn’t until after Deb had gone that Ella realized she might know who the “generous patron” was.

Rafael. Of course it was Rafael.

He hadn’t been in touch the whole week and she’d just started to think that perhaps he’d lot interest in her, and that although she told herself she’d be thrilled if that happened, something else inside her told her that she was a liar.

Then she’d walked into the dressing room after the performance, and it had come home to her—forcibly—that the likelihood of him forgetting about her was very slim indeed. Not when he’d apparently spent a fortune on red roses.

The dressing room was full of them, vases on every available surface, filling the room with their thick, heady scent. And they weren’t plain red roses either—they were a deep, dark burgundy, almost black.

The other dancers had been delighted, chattering about who could have sent them and why, because there was no note. Ella could have told them, but she remained silent as everyone else changed costumes and put on street clothes, ready to go to the opening night party. Apparently they’d all been told they had to change ASAP and get out because a “fan” wanted to meet with Ella.

They teased her gently about it, several of them demanding a report the next day as they filed out of dressing room. She forced a smile, pretending nothing was wrong, but as soon as the last dancer had gone, she’d had to go and sit down in front of the mirror, anxiety making her feel unsteady.

It was ridiculous to feel this way, especially after Aurora’s pep talk the week before. Then again, maybe it was simply that she hadn’t had a chance to think about Rafael all week, what with gearing up for the opening night of the fairy tale production.

You mean, you haven’t let yourself think about it.

Well, that was true. She’d deliberately kept herself busy so she didn’t have to think. And it had worked. Mostly.

The vanity in front of the mirror was loaded with at least four different vases, all of them overflowing with the bloodred roses that also filled the other vases throughout the dressing room.

She reached out to touch the petal of a drooping rose in one of the bouquets. It felt soft, silky to the touch.

He’d sent these, hadn’t he?

What a strange man he was.

“Do you like them?”

The voice was rich, masculine, and instantly recognizable, and she jumped at the sound of it behind her, only just stopping herself from shoving back the chair and whirling around.

Rafael.

She kept her attention on the rose in front of her, her heart rate suddenly going through the roof. Her finger touching the petal shook, so she put her hand in her lap so he wouldn’t see. “One bouquet would have been nice,” she said, hoping her voice was steady. “Twenty seems like overkill.”

“I got them at a discount.” He sounded amused. “The more you buy, the more you save. I thought the other dancers might appreciate them too.”

The back of her neck prickled as she heard the sound of the door closing, but she forced herself to remain still, to keep her attention on the flowers, determined not to glance in the mirror to check where he was.

“You knew it was me, didn’t you?” His voice was behind her.

“Of course I did. No one else would be quite so creepy.”

He laughed and she had to repress a shiver at the sound. How could it be that one man could make her incredibly anxious, strangely excited, and yet oddly furious all at the same time?

“Did you miss me, Little Red?”

He was directly behind her now—she could smell the dark, spicy scent of his aftershave. It made all the feelings tangling inside her even worse.

“No,” she said firmly. “Not in the slightest.”

“Ah. You’re still angry about that kiss.”

Again she heard that thread of amusement, making her want to lift her chin and stare him down. Show him exactly what that kiss had meant, which was precisely nothing.

Liar.

Yes, but he wasn’t to know that.

She lifted a shoulder as if she didn’t care about the kiss one way or the other. “I’m not.”

“Bullshit.” Firm hands gripped the arms of the chair, and the room spun as he turned her around to face him.

His fingers remained wrapped around the chair arms, his long, lean body directly in front of her, caging her. His face was inches from hers, silver blue eyes searching her face, looking right into her as if he could read her deepest, darkest secrets. Then his beautiful mouth curved, as if he’d found the particular secret he’d been looking for and it was to his liking. “Of course you’re still furious. But that’s good. I like it when you’re angry. Perhaps I should give you another one to make you even angrier.”

Her heart gave a hard kick inside her chest, a shiver of fear and excitement chasing through her. She refused to let either show. Instead she met his gaze, trying to ignore the very stupid part of her that was overwhelmed by his nearness. That couldn’t stop staring at his devastatingly attractive good looks, the strongly carved jaw, the high cheekbones, the dark winged brows.

There was no doubt he was handsome, and she couldn’t lie to herself and tell herself she was unaffected by it. But still, she could pretend to him that she wasn’t—and that she would.

“Why are you here, Rafael?” she asked, ignoring the whole kiss conversation. “If you wanted another dinner, you could have simply called.”

“I could. But where would be the fun in that?” He shifted his stance, but didn’t move away, keeping his hands on the arms of her chair, making her very, very aware of his proximity. “Anyway, I wanted to watch you dance.”

That shocked her. “Why? I wouldn’t have picked you for a ballet fan.”

“Why not? Maybe if you’d stayed to have dinner with me last week, you would have found out just how much of a ballet fan I really am.”

She didn’t know how to take that, because his nearness was making it difficult to think. He wore another one of his exquisitely tailored suits—in dark blue this time, with a gray silk tie—and she could feel the heat coming off him, smoldering like coals from a banked fire.

It made her want to press herself against the back of the chair, put some distance between them. But that would be giving too much away about how he affected her, and she didn’t want him to know. She could barely even admit it to herself. Already she was starting to feel the way she had the night in the restaurant when he’d touched her, as if she wanted to lean into him, take some of his strength and warmth for herself, because God knew she needed it.

“So?” she asked instead. “How much of a ballet fan are you then?”

“Oh, now she wants to know,” Rafael murmured, that fascinating, mocking smile playing around his mouth. “Now she’s interested. But shall I tell her, I wonder? Maybe if she wants to know, she’ll have to give me a few things in return, especially after she refused the dinner I so carefully organized.”

He was playing with her, teasing her, and for some inexplicable reason she felt the anxiety lingering in the pit of her stomach begin to ebb, an unwilling excitement taking its place. Which made absolutely no sense at all, because again, he was manipulating her.

Is he, though? It depends on how badly you want to know why he’s a ballet fan.

She didn’t want to know. She didn’t care. All she wanted was to get to Paris.

Except then she heard herself say, “You’re one of the patrons of my company, aren’t you?”

Another of those amused smiles turned his mouth, a deep blue spark flaring in his eyes. “I wonder . . . If I was standing up and you were en pointe, would you be tall enough to kiss me?”

A hot shock pulsed through her, because no matter how much she didn’t want it to, an image resolved itself in her brain. Of him straightening and standing up, and her in front of him, rising up on the tips of her toes in her pointe shoes, lifting her mouth to his . . .

She felt dizzy and far, far too hot, her brain moving too slowly to notice that he’d used a technical ballet term that most people wouldn’t. “Don’t be stupid,” she said thickly. “I’m not going to kiss you.”

But that smile of his became even more wicked. “Aren’t you? Even after I got you all those lovely roses? Surely you can manage a thank-you kiss.”

Her breath was coming fast, and she didn’t understand why. “I’m . . . not going to do that. I want you to tell me why you’re here.”

Rafael didn’t move, yet the blue of his eyes had deepened, the expression in them becoming sharper and more intent. “Still scared, I see,” he taunted softly. “I thought you would have been much braver than that, bunny girl.”

Bunny girl . . . A spark of anger lit inside her. “If you think calling me a coward is going to make me do what you want, you can think again.” She paused, then added, “Asshole.”

He smiled and her heart gave another of those strange little beats, because this time his smile didn’t have that mocking edge. Instead there was genuine and surprised amusement in it, the cruel glitter in his eyes disappearing, for a second turning his looks from handsome to devastating. “Good,” he murmured. “I like that. I like your claws, Little Red. Show me more. Show me that kiss. Take my breath away. I dare you.”

I dare you . . .

Another spark of anger sizzled like a firework, because it was such a transparently obvious way to get her to do what he wanted, and yet she found her emotions responding to him all the same. She didn’t want to be so easy to manipulate, didn’t want her first urge to be to respond to his taunt and show him exactly how much she dared. Staying in control was important to her to keep a lid on her anxiety, and she didn’t like feeling as if she was at the mercy of emotions she couldn’t control and didn’t understand.

Yet it was also exhilarating, no matter how much she wanted to deny it.

She stared at him, into those uncanny blue gray eyes, his long, thick black lashes making them seem somehow even lighter. Seeing the taunt and the challenge in them, as if she was more than merely a sad little orphan, alone and ignored. More than a sheltered, frightened girl who found the world too big and too scary. Looking at her as if she was brave and strong, and equal to the dare he’d thrown at her.

“You can make your own bargains”.

Aurora’s voice sounded suddenly in her head and for some reason she felt the heavy fabric of her cloak settle around her shoulders, reminding her that she was still in costume. That she was still Little Red Riding Hood and in the story she was the one who vanquished the wolf, not the other way around.

“Okay then,” she said, her voice not quite steady, though this time she found she didn’t care. “You want another kiss, then I’ll give you one. But only on one condition.”

Blue flared in his eyes, dark and deep and hot. “I’m not sure you’re in any position to give me conditions.”

“In that case you don’t get a kiss.”

His smile turned sharp and feral. “What’s your condition?”

A thread of triumph wound through her. “I want you to give me your word that you’ll release the funds for Paris,” she said, suddenly reckless. “All of it. Living expenses, flights, course fees, the whole lot. Oh, yes, and you can pay for a nurse to look after my grandmother while I’m away, too.”

Rafael’s gaze narrowed, the look on his face becoming sharper. “That’s a lot of things to ask for Little Red. And they’re worth more than a kiss.”

“Are they?” she shot back. “How would you know when I haven’t kissed you yet? My kisses might be worth every single cent.”

He laughed, and like that rare smile, it sounded like she’d surprised it out of him, warm and deep and so incredibly sexy she had to clasp her hands together tightly in her lap to stop them from doing something really stupid like reaching for him.

“Well now, that’s a very compelling argument.” All the silver had gone from his eyes, they were a deep, hot blue. “I could be persuaded. Except, before I commit, I’m going to want a . . . preview.”

Dammit. He was the CEO of a huge company, so of course he’d be better at doing business deals than she was. Still, if the “preview” was good enough for him, then she would get everything she wanted. All she had to do was kiss him and make it really, really good. Which would be fine if she’d actually kissed someone before, but she hadn’t.

Then again, she was still in her Red Riding Hood costume and she was still furious with him. Furious enough to forget all her fears and doubts. Furious enough that it didn’t matter how much experience or otherwise she’d had, she’d do what he’d said. She’d take his damn breath away.

“Fine,” she said. “A preview it is.” And before she could second-guess herself, she lifted her hands and shoved them hard against his chest, pushing him back from the chair.

Slipping off it, she took one precise step toward him and rose up onto the tips of her ballet shoes. Then, lifting one hand, she curled her fingers through the thick, soft black silk of his hair, and pulled his mouth down on hers.