Page 6 of Tempting the President
“M-Mr. Steele, will you please stop saying such inappropriate things?”
“What’s inappropriate about asking a psychology professor about her thoughts?” His smile suggests he knows exactly how inappropriate this entire conversation is. “I’m curious about the psychological appeal of these scenarios. Aren’t you supposed to be the expert?”
“Not on—” I swallow hard. “Not on this.”
“No?” He glances down at my Kindle, still in his hand. “Yet you’ve bookmarked certain scenes multiple times. The hallway scene in Chapter Twelve, for instance.”
Oh gosh. He’s checked my reading history. The hallway scene. Where the heroine gets cornered by the hero and he—
Don’t even go there, Jayne!
Just...forget everything you’ve read and focus on the present!
“Research,” I manage to say, grasping for any professional explanation. “Purely academic interest.”
“Mmm.” The sound is noncommittal but somehow devastating. “So if I were to ask you what you find most compelling about that particular scene, academically speaking, what would you say?”
“I...” My mouth has gone completely dry. “The power dynamics are...interesting from a psychological perspective.”
“The power dynamics,” he repeats, and the way his mouth curves around the words makes something in my stomach clench. “You mean the way he corners her? The way he makes her admit what she wants?”
I should maintain professional distance. Should remember that this man is my student’s brother, that we’re in my office, that everything about this situation crosses approximately seventeen ethical boundaries.
“Mr. Steele—”
“Patrizio,” he corrects, and somehow his first name feels even more dangerous than ‘darling’ did.
“Mr. Steele,” I repeat firmly, “I think we’re getting off track. You came here with concerns about Annie’s academic work.”
“And I’ve discovered something far more interesting.” He finally steps back, giving me room to breathe, but somehow that’s almost worse. “You’re exactly like the women in my sister’s case studies. Brilliant, controlled, and desperate for someone to see through the facade.”
“That’s not—”
“Isn’t it?” He tucks my Kindle into his jacket pocket, and I’m too stunned to protest. “I think we both know it is.”
“Give me back my Kindle.” I find my voice, fueled by indignation and the absolute certainty that I cannot let him leave with evidence of my reading habits.
“I will.” His smile is all predatory satisfaction. “When you’re ready to have an honest conversation about what you really want.”
“What I want is for you to leave my office. Now.”
“As you wish, Dr. Stuart.” He moves toward the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “I’ll be back tomorrow. We have more to discuss about Annie’s academic future.”
And then he’s gone, taking my Kindle—and with it, any pretense that I’m just a serious academic with purely professional interests—with him.
I sink into my chair, heart racing, face burning, and the horrible certainty that Patrizio Steele has seen straight through every defense I’ve ever constructed.
All because I couldn’t resist reading one more chapter about fictional motorcycle club presidents and the women who love them.
Only Patrizio Steele isn’t fictional. And based on the way my body responded to his presence, my attraction to his type is dangerously real.
Rule #2: Don’t let him see what you really read.
HE HAS MY KINDLE.
The thought jolts me awake at 3:17 AM, heart pounding like I’ve just realized I’ve left a toddler at the grocery store rather than an electronic device in the hands of my student’s terrifyingly attractive brother.
Except it’s worse than just leaving my Kindle. Because my Kindle contains my entire reading history.
