Chapter 16

For a moment, I almost feel sorry for him. Almost forget what I just found in his desk.

Then he reaches for the crystal paperweight.

Panic surges through me. If he opens that drawer and sees the false bottom isn’t exactly as he left it…

But a second phone rings—his cell this time. He checks the screen and answers immediately.

“Speak.” His tone changes completely—softer, intimate. “I told you not to call me here.”

A woman? A girlfriend? Why does that possibility send a flash of completely inappropriate jealousy through me?

“Tomorrow night.” He lowers his voice. “Wear the red dress.”

Great. Perfect. Of course he has someone to wear red dresses for him. Someone who isn’t his terrified assistant hiding in his bathroom like a criminal.

Which, technically, I am at this point.

“I have to go,” he says. “Don’t call again tonight.”

He hangs up, slips the phone into his pocket, and—to my immense relief—walks out without touching the drawer.

I wait a full five minutes after I hear the outer door close before I dare to breathe again.

Then I slink out of the bathroom, my legs shaking so badly I can barely walk. I somehow make it to my desk and collapse into my chair, my mind racing.

A gun. Cash. What was probably a fake passport. And now, phone calls about Koreans and girls in safe houses and someone in a red dress.

This is madness. I’m in way over my head.

But if I quit and go to the cops, like the good angel on my shoulder is demanding I do, what happens to Mom? To her treatments? To the life I’m finally able to give her after years of scraping by?

And what happens to me if Vincent finds out I betrayed him?

I close my eyes, trying to calm my racing heart.

There has to be an explanation, right? Maybe he’s some kind of undercover agent. He’s rescuing those girls from traffickers, probably. I’m sure the gun is just for protection.

Even as the thoughts form, I know I’m grasping at straws. Lying to myself.

Vincent Akopov is dangerous. Possibly a criminal. Definitely not someone I should be fantasizing about.

And yet here I am, unable to shake the image of him with his collar open, his hair mussed, that small cut making him look like he just walked away from a fight.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I gather my things with shaking hands, shut down my computer, and practically run for the elevator.

Tomorrow, I’ll face him again. I’ll smile and take notes and pretend I didn’t see what I saw. I’ll be the perfect assistant.

What other choice do I have?

12

VINCE

Something’s wrong.

I can feel it the moment I walk into my office the next morning. Nothing obvious. Nothing that would trigger alarm bells for anyone else.

But I’m not anyone else.

I pause, scanning the room through narrowed eyes. My gaze lands on my desk. The crystal paperweight—the Moscow skyline trapped in glass—sits half an inch off from where I always position it.

My jaw clenches.

I move toward the desk, reaching for the bottom drawer. The lock turns smoothly.

Too smoothly.

When I pull it open, I notice immediately. The drawer isn’t fully closed, the false bottom not quite settled. Someone got careless putting it back.

“Blyat’,” I whisper.

Someone’s been in my desk. Someone’s seen what’s inside.

And there’s only one person it could possibly be.

I glance through the open door to where Rowan sits at her desk, typing away. She looks up, gives me a nervous smile, then quickly drops her eyes back to her computer screen.

Guilty as fucking sin.

I shut the drawer and lock it again, replacing the key under the paperweight. My mind races through the possibilities, each one darker than the last.

She knows. She’s seen the gun. The cash. The passport.

What else has she discovered? What else has she heard?

More importantly, what am I going to do about it?

The old Vince—the one who answered only to himself—would have a very simple solution. A problem that walks, talks, and snoops doesn’t remain a problem for long in my world.

One call to Arkady, and Rowan St. Clair would disappear without a trace.

My fingers hover over my phone. It would be so easy.

But something stops me.

Is it the way she looked in that green dress? The flush that crept up her neck when I stared at her too long? The fact that, despite what she’s seen and heard, she still came back to work today?

Or is it something else entirely—the realization that she might still be useful to me?

“Ms. St. Clair,” I call out, my voice betraying none of the rage simmering beneath the surface. “Could you come in here, please?”

I watch her through the doorway. She flinches at the sound of my voice. Her hand trembles as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

She’s terrified.

Good. She should be.

“Coming, Mr. Akopov,” she calls back, her voice impressively steady for someone who looks like she might throw up.

I sit behind my desk, folding my hands in front of me as she enters. I gesture for her to close the door.

“Lock it,” I add.

Her eyes widen, but she does as she’s told, turning the deadbolt with a soft click that seems to echo in the sudden silence.

“Sit.”

She perches on the edge of the chair across from me, knees pressed tightly together, hands folded in her lap. A perfect picture of innocence—if you don’t count the fear radiating off her in waves.

I say nothing, just stare at her. Making her wait. Making her squirm.

It’s a technique I learned from my father. The guilty confess into silence faster than they do to questions.

“Sir, I—” she begins.

I hold up my hand, stopping her. “Did you sleep well last night, Ms. St. Clair?”

She blinks, caught off guard by the question. “I… Not really.”

“Troubles on your mind?”

She swallows hard. “Just work stress. Getting used to the new position.”

A lie. But an expected one.