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My journalist brain finally overpowers the part of me still thinking about icy blue eyes and firm hands.

“Mr. Knight?”

He holds up one finger.

Not rudely. More like give me ten seconds. Which somehow makes it worse that I immediately obey.

“Einen Moment, bitte,” he says smoothly into the phone before looking at me. “Yes, Miss Hawthorne?”

“Um, where exactly are we going?”

“I thought we were going to have a chat and maybe a nightcap?”

“Oh, okay.”

That's not an answer.

“Excuse me, I'm almost finished.”

And just like that, he returns to his conversation.

In German.

Because of course, he speaks German.

Why wouldn't he? He’s a genius billionaire. A media mogul. And let’s not forget, a professional rugby team owner.

Mitchell Knight probably speaks six languages and builds nuclear reactors in his basement on weekends.

I, meanwhile, know enough high school Spanish to ask where the bathroom is and inform someone that my aunt has a red bicycle.

Very useful.

I sink back against the seat and return my attention to the window.

Or I try to.

Because sitting quietly isn't exactly my strong suit. Observing, however, is.

So I observe.

The limo is gorgeous. Not rented gorgeous. His gorgeous.

There are too many little details that scream regular use.

A pull-down workstation occupies one side of the cabin, complete with a laptop dock and two slim monitors currently folded away. Charging ports are built into practically every available surface. There's a tablet mounted beside his seat, a small printer tucked into a compartment, and what looks suspiciously like a satellite communications system.

Because apparently Wi-Fi isn't sufficient when you're Mitchell Knight.

There's also a snack bar. I peek inside.

No alcohol.

Interesting.

Bottled water. Imported, judging by the labels.

Almonds.