When Contracts Turn to Forbidden Kisses Chapter 19

Ethan

The awkwardness from yesterday’s dance practice still lingered, but I could sense there was more to her than she let on. I needed to keep observing her closely.

I glanced at my watch; it was 10 AM. Amelia had mentioned she wasn't heading to the hospital today—something about a late shift instead. Perfect timing to observe her movements.

By noon, however, I'd made little progress with my actual work. Amelia had spent the morning organizing medical journals and sketching in her notebook. I watched her from the corner of my eye as I helped her gather some fallen books—her casual cream sweater and loose hair giving her an almost vulnerable appearance. Her fingertips were stained with paint, like a child caught playing with art supplies.

Around three o'clock, I heard the coffee machine running in the kitchen. Passing by, I noticed Amelia standing there, staring blankly at the wall, completely oblivious to the warning lights flashing on the machine. Steam was building up dangerously, and hot water was about to overflow onto her hand.

I didn't think—I just moved. In three quick strides, I was behind her, yanking her away from the machine and shielding her with my body as hot water and steam erupted. Some of it splashed onto her fingers anyway, and she let out a small cry of pain.

"Shit," I muttered, still holding her against me. Her back pressed to my chest, I could feel her rapid heartbeat. Or maybe it was mine. The scent of paint and something floral filled my senses—her hair just inches from my face.

"What were you thinking?" I asked, my voice low and rough against her ear. I felt her shiver slightly in my arms.

She seemed disoriented, her breathing uneven. "I... I was distracted."

I should have released her immediately. Instead, I found myself holding on for a moment longer than necessary, feeling the warmth of her body against mine, the softness of her hair against my jaw. A dangerous, unprofessional indulgence.

When I finally stepped back, the loss of contact felt strangely significant.

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"Let me see your hand," I said, my voice more commanding than I intended. Professional detachment was slipping away faster than I could rebuild it.

Amelia held her reddened fingers close to her chest, shaking her head. "It's nothing. I'm a doctor, remember? I can handle it."

Ignoring her protests, I took her wrist gently but firmly and guided her to the sink. "Cold water. Now."

She complied reluctantly, wincing as the water hit her skin. I retrieved the first aid kit from under the sink and waited for her to finish rinsing.

"It's just a minor burn," she insisted, but allowed me to examine her fingers.

I applied burn cream with methodical care, focusing entirely on the task to avoid dwelling on how delicate her hand felt in mine. My callused fingers, roughened by years of firearms training, looked almost brutish against her slender ones.

"Hold still," I murmured, wrapping a light gauze around the worst affected area.

"My mom..." Amelia started, then paused. Her voice had a strange, distant quality. "She used to take care of my injuries like this. When I was little."

I glanced up, instantly alert. This was the first time she'd voluntarily mentioned her mother since our marriage began. Her green eyes were unfocused, lost in memory, and I saw an opportunity.

"What was she like?" I asked carefully, keeping my tone conversational while I finished the bandage.

Amelia's expression changed subtly—a flicker of guardedness replacing the momentary vulnerability. "She was kind. And brave." Her voice dropped almost to a whisper on the last word. "But she's gone now. She can't come back."

Her sudden withdrawal was almost physical. She pulled her hand away and stepped back, her face closing like a shutter. "Thank you for the help."

I watched her retreat, analyzing the interaction. The word "brave" stuck with me. What had Elizabeth Thompson done that her daughter considered brave? Was it related to the Viktor Group and the missing evidence of money laundering?

Standing alone in the kitchen, I flexed my hand, still warm from holding hers. My protective instinct toward Amelia was becoming a liability to this investigation. When I'd seen her about to be hurt, my first reaction hadn't been that of an FBI agent protecting a potential witness—it had been pure, unfiltered concern.

That was dangerous. Far more dangerous than any coffee machine.

Back in the study, I tried to make sense of my conflicting thoughts.

Was she involved in money laundering? Or was she protecting herself from something else entirely? The discrepancy between the cold, calculating person described in our intelligence reports and the woman who sketched babies with tears in her eyes was becoming harder to reconcile.

I needed to change my approach. If Amelia knew something about her mother's involvement with Viktor, I needed to find the connection directly rather than waiting for her to reveal it. Perhaps investigating Elizabeth Thompson's death more thoroughly would yield better results than watching Amelia for slips.

My phone buzzed with an encrypted call from Agent Miller. I answered immediately.

"Ethan," Miller's gruff voice came through. "Any substantial progress? What's your status?"

I glanced toward the door, ensuring Amelia wasn't nearby. "The target is definitely hiding something," I said quietly. "Her reactions to her mother's history suggest a potential breakthrough. I need more time to investigate thoroughly."

"Ethan," Miller's voice carried a weighted implication, "if she's involved in the money laundering operation, we need concrete evidence. If necessary..."

The unfinished sentence hung between us. I knew what he meant. If necessary, I would need to make the arrest myself, regardless of any personal feelings that might have developed.

"I understand," I replied, my voice professional and detached.

After hanging up, I stared out the window at the Manhattan skyline. The conflict between duty and growing personal concern for Amelia was becoming impossible to ignore. My training had prepared me for many challenges, but not for this—not for the way my heart raced when she was in danger, or how her smile could momentarily make me forget why I was really here.

I had a job to do. People had died because of Viktor's operation, so justice needed to be served.