Lahat ng Kabanata ng The Tycoon’s Temptress - Red Flower’s Chase: Kabanata 31 - Kabanata 40

Raffaele had brought me the usual way to the private flight field near his jet. His hand brushed my lower back for support, and his warmth—God, why couldn’t I stop thinking about him? He smirked, leaning in close. “Did you miss me yet, Valentina?” I leaned in too. “Maybe just a little,” I murmured, still feeling weak from the fish poison Tariq had so graciously served. He settled across from me as the jet hummed to life, watching me with that cool, unreadable gaze. “You stole the spotlight,” he said, voice low and almost admiring. “Hijacked his entire stage. Even I didn’t see it coming.” I gave him a lazy smile. “Neither did he. That’s what makes it art.” “You embarrassed him. And you made me bleed seven million for bracelets you didn’t even take.” He chuckled. “I didn’t need the bracelets,” I said. “I needed the moment. To create momentum.” Raffaele tilted his head. “And what exactly did you prove?” “That I’m not for sale.” He paused—just long enough to make me wonder if

Valentina’s POVThe curator named Nigel, an expert in charge of the Mesopotamian collection I was particularly interested in, led us through the halls with quiet authority.He was thin and lacked a muscular frame, unlike Raffaele—like someone who’d spent too many years hunched over magnifying glasses in the British Museum’s library.His tweed jacket looked like it hadn’t changed since the ’90s, complete with elbow patches and the faint scent of old paper.They’re the ones who select, research, preserve, and present artifacts—just like Laleh, my father’s colleague from the National Museum of Iraq in Baghdad. And apparently, they also guide VIP tours when the guests are important enough.Being a Ricchezza, as of now, did come with its own special brand of charm and privilege.And tonight, that was us.“Look, Raffaele!” I squealed, unable to hide my excitement.“The Assyrian lamassu—human head, body of a lion, wings like an eagle. They used to place them at the entrances of cities and pa

Valentina’s POVI felt it before I saw it.The warmth of breath brushing across my cheek. The faint scent of sandalwood and salt. When I finally blinked and opened my eyes, his face was there—far too close. Inches from mine.Raffaele.I recoiled instinctively, but not fast enough to stop his smirk.“You pout in your sleep,” he said with his voice low and velvety-smooth. “It’s almost tragic how adorable it is.”I narrowed my eyes. “Were you watching me?”“For research purposes only.” He leaned on one arm, casually invading my space. “I had to make sure the queen of drama was still breathing.”I pushed the sheet off me and sat up with a groan. “It’s barely morning. Don’t start with me.”“Oh, I haven’t started,” he murmured. “But since we’re both awake…”I shot him a warning glare, but he didn’t flinch.“You’re not still mad, are you?” he asked, resting his chin on his hand like we were discussing tea preferences.“I’m not done being mad,” I muttered.He reached out, brushed a strand of

Tariq Al-Mansour’s POV The heat was pressing. I’d dragged the thin American bookkeeper all the way out into the Egyptian desert. Technically, he was an antiques and negotiation expert—but he still carried the non-existent charm of a bookworm. A geek completely out of place beneath the scorching sun. I had taken him out here for one reason—to see if there was anything in him worth keeping. I wore a loose sandy-beige cotton shirt, half unbuttoned to vent the heat, and matching sirwal pants—practical, flexible. An olive-green turban shaded my head, the scarf around my neck ready in case of a sudden sandstorm. A black tactical vest sat over it all, and my boots kept the desert out. My hand rested on the dagger at my belt, fingers tightening around the sheath. My eyes darkened and narrowed as I scanned the horizon with endless dunes stretching before us. Wondering if Miles would take the bait… or flinch, disgusted…and turn against me. Miles, my American companion, made

Valentina’s POV The night was intoxicating. Pale blue moonlight spilled across the golden dunes, the wind carrying the faint scent of expensive incense—oud and dust—while camel bells chimed softly in the distance. Oud was considered liquid gold. Deep, smoky, rich, with a sweetness that lingered beneath layers of wood, spice, and leather. It reminded me too much of Raffaele—standing silent beside me, holding the reins of a stubborn camel. “My lady,” Raffaele whispered as he offered to help me onto the camel’s hump. The camels were adorned with hand-embroidered saddles and gold-trimmed reins with deep burgundy saddle blankets—soft and velvety with ethnic tassels. The handlers stood nearby in flowing robes, paid to stay invisible unless needed. “Of course,” I answered, giving him a sideways smirk. He was simply too charming—a gentleman’s touch. But as his hand fell upon my ankle, I froze. A slow, amused grin spread across his face as I hung there—halfway up, stomach pres