"The merger papers, Mr. MacLean," Isla said, her voice betraying a slight tremor.

Isla adjusted her glasses, staring at the figure silhouetted against the floor-to-ceiling window. Callum MacLean didn’t belong in a bespoke Italian suit. He was a man built of granite and ancient heather, with shoulders that seemed to strain against the fine wool and eyes the color of a stormy Atlantic.

He turned, and for a moment, the modern world vanished. In the tilt of his jaw and the rugged intensity of his gaze, Isla didn't see a CEO. She saw the ghost of a highlander—a warrior who would have commanded clans with a claymore in hand.

Isla swallowed hard. She had come to Scotland for a fresh start, a quiet job in archives and administration. She hadn't expected her boss to be a modern-day Chieftain who looked like he’d just stepped out of an 18th-century epic. "And what is it you want?" she whispered.

"It wouldn't be appropriate," she countered, though her heart was drumming a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

Callum reached out, his thumb grazing the line of her jaw, a touch that burned like wildfire. "Loyalty," he said, his eyes darkening. "And the one woman in Edinburgh who refuses to look me in the eye because she's afraid of what she'll find there."

"I told you to call me Callum, Isla," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly burr that vibrated in her chest. He stepped closer, invading her professional bubble. The scent of sandalwood and rain followed him.

Callum leaned over her desk, pinning her with a look that was equal parts predatory and protective. "We're alone in this tower, lass. My ancestors didn't care much for 'appropriate' when they saw something they wanted."