When lilies burn

The restaurant was hidden in plain sight. It was one of those exclusive Mayfair gems you needed to know someone to enter. No name on the door. Just a black panel, a soft buzz, and a private lift. Passion Coleman arrived wrapped in poise and silk, a dark green dress hugging her figure like a second skin. The slit at her thigh wasn't an accident.

Scott Bishop stood when she entered, watching her like someone who knew exactly how dangerous beauty could be. His gaze dipped, lingered dangerously then lifted back to her eyes. He smiled.

"Passion," he said, with a softness she hadn't heard before. "You clean up well."

She smiled, slow and unbothered. "You're assuming I was ever dirty."

He laughed and pulled her chair. "Touché."

The lighting was low, gold-tinged, the room wrapped in velvet and quiet music by the violinist in the background. Just the right ambience for faint clink of cutlery and the whisper of power in expensive suits.

Scott poured her wine, watching her fingers as she accepted the glass. "I wasn't sure you'd say yes to this."

"That didn't stop you from asking, anyways I'm not averse to pleasure," she corrected, then leaned in, voice velvet and steel. "But I say yes when it suits me."

He didn't answer immediately. Just smiled as if he liked the challenge.

"Your assistant said the revised terms were acceptable. But I wanted to persuade you personally."

"Oh?" She arched a brow, setting her wine down. "Do you often use charm as a negotiation tool?"

He leaned in, elbows resting on the table. "Only when the stakes are high."

Their knees brushed beneath the table, accident or not, neither of them moved.

"I'll sign," she said, lifting the folder from the table. "No persuasion needed."

Scott blinked, just slightly caught off guard. "That's... excellent news."

She signed with quick, fluid confidence, then closed the folder and slid it toward him. "There. The deal's done."

He didn't move right away. Instead, he studied her.

"Was it me?" he asked, voice low. "The food? My irresistible smile?"

She tilted her head, fingers brushing the rim of her glass. "You want me to say you were the tipping point?"

"I wouldn't mind it."

She let the silence linger, thick and teasing. Then coolly "The deal was always going to happen, Scott. You just gave me an amusing backdrop."

He laughed, full and deep this time. "So I'm window dressing?"

"You're pleasant window dressing."

A pause. Then he leaned a little closer, voice dipping just enough to suggest intentions.

"I'm starting to like being underestimated by you."

"And I'm starting to enjoy proving people wrong," she replied. Her leg crossed over the other, this time deliberate. His eyes flicked down and back up.

"Careful," he murmured. "We're supposed to be professionals."

She smirked. "I am. You're the one looking like you'd rather skip dessert and taste sin."

Scott laughed again, a hand briefly raking through his hair. "God, you're dangerous."

She tilted her wine glass toward him. "Now you're starting to understand."

**

By the time dessert arrived, the deal was old news and the air between them shimmered with something heavier. She felt it, charged, subtle, thrilling. The kind of tension that pressed just beneath the surface.

When he opened the car door for her, she declined. "I'll walk."

"Trying to shake me off?"

"Trying to remind myself of the mission."

He studied her in the London night. "I still can't shake this feeling that you're more than meets the eyes."

She stepped closer—just enough to make him hold his breath. "And I don't know whether you'd run from the truth or beg for more."

Then she turned, heels striking the pavement, her perfume lingering in the space between them.

**

Back at her apartment, she peeled off the dress slowly, her fingers lingering at the zipper. The night clung to her skin, his gaze, his voice, the ghost of his knee against hers.

She tossed the dress over a chair and pulled on a silk robe. Standing by the window, she stared out at the glittering city and whispered to herself:

"Just like them all, he underestimates a beautiful woman."

Her phone buzzed.

Matteo: "All clear. Next stage ready when you are."

She replied:

"Signed it today. Let him believe it was him."

Outside, a black car paused at the end of the street, then rolled on. She watched it vanish.

She wasn't supposed to feel anything. Not this tug of heat low in her belly. Not this awareness that his hands would probably feel very, very good around her throat or waist.

She cursed softly, turned away, and poured herself a drink.

Let him flirt. Let him try. It won't change a damn thing. She never mixed business with pleasure especially not dangerous important business.

But her pulse disagreed.