Charles Bishop was unusually quiet as he packed. The penthouse office suite was dark, save for the faint city lights outside. He preferred it that way when he needed to think. His departure had been planned quickly, the jet arranged without a whisper to the press. Even his inner circle didn't know where he was going. Not yet.
Only Scott watched from the doorway, jacket slung over one shoulder, jaw tight.
"You're not telling me where you're going?" he asked.
Charles zipped the leather overnight bag and looked up, eyes cold. "The less you know, the better."
"I'm not a kid anymore."
"No," his father said, walking toward him. "But you're still soft where it counts."
Scott didn't flinch. "This about Virudix?"
Charles paused, eyes sharp. "This is about control, son. We're losing it. And I'm going to make sure we don't."
He moved past Scott with a pat on the shoulder that felt more like a warning than affection.
"Hold down the home front. Make sure we're clean even if anyone comes snooping. Keep Passion Coleman close, she must not become a problem."
Scott didn't respond until the elevator doors closed behind his father.
****
The private shooting range was tucked into the edge of the city, designed for high-end clients who wanted thrill in silence. No press or flashing lights. Just the kind of exclusivity that attracted men like Scott Bishop.
He wasn't expecting anyone else when he walked in. He certainly wasn't expecting her.
Passion Coleman.
Wearing all black again, only this time in fitted pants, a sleek leather jacket, hair pinned back, safety glasses in hand, and lips curved in a slow, knowing smile as she adjusted the grip on her Glock. Scott stopped dead in his tracks. He had come here to vent his frustration and pent up desire only to run into her.
"Look what the cat dragged in" she said without looking at him, lining up her next shot. The shot rang out. Bullseye.
"Impressive," he murmured, stepping beside her.
She handed off the gun to the instructor and pulled off her gloves, casually tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I could say the same. What brings you here, Bishop? Looking to vent your family drama into paper targets?"
He smirked, not denying it. "Didn't realize you were the shooting type."
She turned fully to him, eyes sharp. "And what type did you figure I was? The kind that only wears heels and knows how to sip champagne?"
"I stand corrected."
There was a pause. A slow, electric silence between them that wasn't quite comfortable but wasn't unwelcome either.
"Care for a round?" she offered.
"Thought you'd never ask."
They stood side by side in the next lane, and it became a silent contest. Bullet after bullet, each shot like a statement.
"You know," he said, not looking at her, "last night at the gala, you almost kissed me."
"I did no such thing," she replied smoothly. "You just mistook power for desire."
Scott turned to her, slow, deliberate. "And you're saying they're not the same?"
She met his gaze head-on. "Power is calculated. Desire is chaotic."
Their eyes locked.
Something unspoken passed between them. Something sharp and molten and entirely inappropriate.
The instructor returned to reload their rounds, but neither of them moved.
Then Passion did something Scott didn't expect, she stepped into his space. Close enough that he could smell the faint trace of sandalwood and whatever perfume clung to her skin like sin. She reached up, plucked the protective glasses from his face, and said, "You're not as in control as you think, Bishop."
"And you want to test that theory?" he asked, voice low.
Without answering, she walked past him, heading for the locker area, aiming to clear her head. The glint of desire in her eyes didn't go unnoticed by Scott. He followed her immediately. The moment the door clicked shut behind him, the air shifted.
Scott moved first. He backed her against the wall with the weight of his body and the heat of frustration that had been simmering since their first meeting. Their mouths collided, not tentative, not sweet but desperate, demanding. Her fingers tangled in his hair as he crushed her closer. His hands gripped her hips, then slid lower, anchoring her against him.
She moaned into his mouth, and it made something inside him snap.
She bit his lower lip, a warning or a dare. He answered with a groan, letting his mouth trail to her neck, nipping just under her jaw. She arched into him, eyes dark and breath shallow. The jacket fell off her shoulders, and his hand slipped under the hem of her top, skimming hot skin.
Then she broke away, breathless, flushed, lips red from kissing.
"Enough," she whispered, voice like velvet over steel.
Scott's eyes were wild, but he didn't protest. He just stared at her like she'd set him on fire and walked away without apology. Passion smoothed her hair, adjusted her clothes with practiced ease, and picked up her gloves.
"This was a mistake," she murmured.
He stepped forward, crowding her space again. "Then why did it feel so damn good?"
She didn't answer. She didn't have to. Because they both knew whatever just ignited between them wasn't done.
Not even close.