Chapter 3: The Study of Temptation

Mary Rose POV

Thomas's study is everything the public spaces of Graystone Manor aren't intimate, personal, and so thoroughly saturated with his presence that I feel like an intruder in his most private sanctuary. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame Central Park like a living painting, the autumn foliage a riot of color against steel and glass towers. First edition books line mahogany shelves with the casual abundance of someone who collects for love rather than status, and family photographs chronicle a life I'm not entitled to understand but find myself desperate to know.

My eyes catch on a silver frame on the credenza a woman laughing at whoever's behind the camera, her whole face lit with joy that makes you want to laugh with her. Catherine Gray. I know it without asking, the same way I know that the tightness in my chest is completely inappropriate jealousy over a dead woman I never met.

"She would have liked you," Thomas says, and I nearly jump out of my skin because I didn't hear him move. He's directly behind me now, close enough that his breath stirs the hair at my temple, close enough that I can feel the heat of his body like a physical touch. "Catherine always said the best photographers were the ones who understood that every picture tells a story about loss as much as love."

I turn to face him a mistake I realize too late because suddenly we're chest to chest, his height forcing me to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. The study's not small, but Thomas fills it like he fills every space he occupies, with that unconscious authority that comes from never doubting his right to exist exactly as he is.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, though I'm not sure what I'm apologizing for. Looking at his wife's photograph? Standing too close? Wanting him with an intensity that feels like drowning?

Thomas's gaze drops to my mouth, and I watch his jaw tighten with what looks like monumental self-control. For a heartbeat, I think he's going to kiss me. For a heartbeat, I want him to so badly that my lips part in invitation I don't consciously give.

Then he steps back, creating space that feels like punishment. "We should discuss the contract," he says, his voice rougher than before, and the evidence that he's as affected as I am should not make my pulse race with triumph.

I nod, not trusting my voice, and move to the desk on shaking legs. Thomas settles into his chair with the fluid grace of someone completely comfortable with power, but I notice his hands aren't quite steady when he pulls up the Wellington-Morrison file on his computer.

"Talk me through your artistic vision," Thomas says, leaning back in his chair with studied casualness that doesn't match the intensity in his eyes. "How do you approach a wedding of this scale?"

I should give him my standard pitch the one about capturing authentic moments and emotional storytelling that makes clients nod approvingly before signing contracts. Instead, I find myself being honest in ways I never am during business consultations.

"I look for the truth beneath the performance," I say, pulling up my portfolio on my laptop. "Every wedding has two narratives running simultaneously the one the couple wants the world to see, and the real story happening in unguarded moments. My job is finding that second narrative."

"Show me." It's not a request. Thomas stands and moves behind my chair as I begin clicking through images, and suddenly his hand is resting on the chair back while the other braces on the desk beside me, effectively caging me in his presence.

I can't breathe properly. His cologne cedar and something darker that I'm beginning to recognize as uniquely Thomas clouds my judgment and makes focusing on my own work nearly impossible. I'm hyperaware of every breath he takes, the subtle tension in his frame that suggests he's fighting for control, the heat radiating from his body that makes me want to lean back and discover if he's as solid as he looks.

"This one," I manage, pulling up an image from a spring wedding. The ceremony shot everyone expected bride and groom at the altar, sunlight streaming through cathedral windows. "This is what the couple paid for. Beautiful, traditional, exactly what their families wanted to see in the wedding album."

Thomas leans closer, and his chest brushes against my shoulder. The contact sends electricity racing down my spine. "It's technically perfect," he observes. "But it doesn't make me feel anything."

"Exactly." I click to the next image the same moment from a different angle. The groom's face as he watches his bride approach, raw vulnerability and overwhelming love captured in a single unguarded instant. "This is what actually happened. This is the truth."

Thomas goes completely still behind me, and when he speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper. "That's what I want you to find. Not the performance, but the truth underneath."

His breath against my ear makes me shiver involuntarily, and I feel rather than see his responding smile. His hand moves from the chair back to my shoulder, thumb brushing against the side of my neck in a touch that's far too intimate to be accidental.

"Thomas," I breathe, not sure if it's a warning or a plea.

"Mary Rose." The way he says my name like a prayer, like a promise, like something sacred and profane simultaneously makes me forget every professional boundary I've ever established. "Tell me to stop. Tell me you don't feel this, and I'll step back."

But I can't. My body betrays me by leaning into his touch, and his sharp intake of breath confirms he noticed. We're crossing lines we can't uncross, and neither of us seems capable of stopping.

"Your portfolio," Thomas says, his voice strained. "Keep showing me."

I click through images with trembling fingers, explaining technique and artistic choices while Thomas's hands map territory they have no business exploring the curve of my shoulder, the column of my neck, the sensitive spot behind my ear that makes me gasp when his thumb finds it.

"This couple," I say, pulling up a series from last fall. My voice is embarrassingly breathless. "They almost cancelled three times. Cold feet, family drama, all the usual disasters. But look at them during the first dance."

The image shows a bride and groom holding each other like lifelines, the rest of the world faded to blur around them. You can see their entire story in that single frame the fear they conquered, the choice they made, the love that proved stronger than doubt.

"That's courage," Thomas murmurs against my hair. "Choosing love despite every reason to run."

His words hit too close to whatever's building between us, and I make the mistake of turning to look at him. Our faces are inches apart, his eyes dark with desire that matches the heat pooling low in my belly. His hand slides into my hair, and the possessive gesture makes me whimper an actual whimper that I'll be mortified about later but can't regret now.

"I want to kiss you," Thomas says, and the raw honesty in his voice steals what's left of my resistance. "I've wanted to kiss you since you stepped out of your car this morning looking terrified and determined and so beautiful it made my chest ache."

"That's a terrible idea." But I'm already tilting my face up, already giving permission with my body even as my words try to maintain sanity.

"The worst," he agrees. His thumb traces my lower lip, and the gentle touch makes me shake with want. "But I stopped making safe choices when Catherine died. Life's too short to"

His phone rings, shattering the moment like glass. Thomas freezes, his hand still in my hair, his eyes locked on mine with frustration and something that looks like relief. The phone rings again, insistent and shrill in the study's intimate silence.

"Ignore it," I whisper, shocking myself with the plea. But Thomas is already pulling away, already creating the distance I should have demanded ten minutes ago.

He glances at the screen and curses softly. "I should take this." But he doesn't move toward the phone, just stands there looking at me like I'm a puzzle he can't solve.

The phone rings a third time, and Thomas finally answers with clear irritation. "Henry, I'm in a meeting."

The name hits me like ice water.

Henry is common enough. Could be anyone. A business associate. A friend. It doesn't mean

"No, I haven't forgotten your trust fund review," Thomas continues, his tone shifting into something harder. "We'll discuss it when you're back from London."

The world tilts sideways.

Henry. In London. Trust fund. Son.

Thomas Gray isn't just a widowed billionaire who makes my pulse race and my judgment evaporate. He's Henry's father. The man I've been fantasizing about for the past three hours, the man whose touch makes me forget my own name, the man I almost kissed he's my ex-fiancé's father.

I must make some sound because Thomas's attention snaps to me, his eyes narrowing with concern. "I need to call you back," he says into the phone, not waiting for a response before ending the call. "Mary Rose? What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."

A hysterical laugh bubbles up in my throat. Ghost. That's exactly what Henry is a ghost I thought I'd buried who just reached up from the grave to destroy whatever fragile thing was building between me and his father.

"I need to go," I hear myself say, already standing, already gathering my laptop with shaking hands. "I just remembered I have another consultation this afternoon. I'll review the contract and get it back to you tomorrow."

"Mary Rose, wait" Thomas reaches for me, but I'm already moving toward the door, already fleeing like the coward I am.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Gray." The formality sounds wrong after the intimacy we just shared, but it's the only armor I have left. "I'll be in touch."

I'm out the study door and down the curved staircase before Thomas can stop me, before I have to explain why his son's name turned me into a panicked mess, before I have to confess that I'm not just any photographer he hired.

I'm the woman Henry Gray abandoned three years ago.

I'm the ghost in his son's past.

And I just almost kissed the one man in Manhattan I should absolutely, categorically, never touch.