Tattooed in Moonlight

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

If my life had a soundtrack, the past twenty-four hours would've been scored entirely by circus music.

First, I accidentally walked in on a billionaire's glowing dragon tattoo. Then he sent me waffles. Then pasta. Then a chauffeured car with a smug little note that said Checkmate.

And now?

Now, apparently, I was going to dinner with him.

Don't ask me how. One minute I was swearing vengeance in the back of his car, and the next, the driver was smoothly informing me, "Mr. Javierres has arranged a private table for you this evening."

Arranged. Like I'd agreed. Like I'd RSVP'd with a cheerful yes and added a little smiley face for good measure.

"No," I'd said firmly. "Absolutely not. Tell him I'm busy."

"Busy with what, miss?" the driver asked politely.

I opened my mouth, then closed it. Busy with Netflix? Busy with plotting escape routes? Busy with being extremely, aggressively single? None of those sounded convincing.

"Just... busy," I muttered.

The driver only inclined his head, as if "busy" translated to "See you at seven."

Which is how I found myself, three hours later, pacing my suite in a dress I swore I wasn't going to wear.

"This is not a date," I told my reflection. "This is a hostage negotiation. With breadsticks."

My reflection wasn't buying it. She looked too polished. Hair curled, lipstick perfect, dress hugging all the right places.

I pointed at her accusingly. "You traitor."

By the time the knock came, I was already resigned to my fate.

The same driver waited outside, bowing slightly. "Miss Chaves."

I sighed. "Let me guess. Straight to the dungeon?"

He didn't react, just gestured politely to the elevator.

Ten minutes later, I was being ushered into one of the hotel's private dining rooms—all warm lighting, crystal glasses, and the faint scent of expensive wine.

And there he was.

Travis Javierres. Seated at the head of the table like he owned not just the room, not just the hotel, but maybe the entire country. Dark suit, crisp shirt, posture so controlled it made me want to slouch just to balance the equation.

"Miss Chaves," he said as I entered.

"Mr. Javierres," I shot back, striding to the opposite end of the table. I sat down, crossed my legs, and folded my napkin with extra precision. "Let's get this over with. Do I sign something? Swear an oath? Promise to never mention your dragon again?"

He didn't flinch. "You're late."

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Seven sharp," he said simply, checking his watch. "It's seven-oh-five."

My jaw dropped. "Wow. Okay. Glad we clarified your biggest flaw right up front. You're a punctuality snob."

This time, I caught it—the faintest glint in his eyes. Amusement.

"Punctuality," he said evenly, "is respect."

I leaned back in my chair. "Respect is not kidnapping a woman into dinner against her will."

"You accepted the car."

"I accepted the car because your paparazzi army has camped outside the main entrance!"