Chapter 20

She approaches like someone walking to the gallows—reluctant but resigned. When she stops in front of me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her body, I drop my hands to my sides.

“Take off my belt.”

The command hangs in the air between us. Her eyes widen, pupils dilating until there’s just a thin ring of green around the black. I watch the internal struggle play across her face—the professional assistant warring with the woman who admitted she wants me.

“That’s an order, Ms. St. Clair.”

15

ROWAN

“Take off my belt.”

I swallow hard, staring at the Italian leather belt circling his waist. Its presence feels obscene somehow, the final barrier between professional assistance and something much more dangerous.

“Mr. Akopov, I don’t think⁠—”

“I’m not paying you to think, Ms. St. Clair.” His voice drops to that low, dangerous register that makes my insides quiver. “I’m paying you to assist me.”

My mind screams at me to turn around, walk out, and never look back. To preserve what little dignity I have left. I need to remember that this man might be an actual criminal who keeps a gun in his desk drawer.

But my traitorous hands are already reaching for his belt buckle.

“Just this once,” I whisper, more to myself than to him. “Just for the gala.”

His lips morph into that infuriating half-smile. “Of course.”

The metal is cool against my fingertips as I fumble with the clasp. I’m hyperaware of my breathing, of the minimal space between us, of the heat radiating from his bare chest.

This close, I can see the details of the tattoo on his chest. Cyrillic letters I can’t read, spreading across his left pectoral like a declaration. Below it, a thin white scar runs along his rib. I wonder what—or who—gave it to him.

The buckle finally releases with a soft click. I slide the leather slowly through the loops, careful not to brush against him.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and the praise sends an unwanted thrill through me.

I refuse to look up, to let him see what those words do to me. Instead, I cross to the coat rack and hang the belt carefully beside the tuxedo jacket.

“The dress shirt next,” he says, and I hear the rustle of fabric as he removes his pants.

I keep my back turned, focusing intently on the crisp white shirt in my hands. My face burns hot enough to melt steel.

“I won’t bite, Rowan.” The amusement in his voice only makes it worse. “Not unless you ask me to.”

I turn around slowly, determined to maintain my composure.

Vincent stands there in nothing but black boxer briefs that leave very little to the imagination. My mouth goes dry at the sight of him—all sculpted muscle and pale skin marked with scattered scars and tattoos.

I force my eyes upward, away from the impressive bulge that seems to grow under my gaze.

“Your shirt, sir,” I manage, approaching him with the garment held out like a shield.

He turns, presenting his back to me, and slides his arms into the sleeves as I hold it open. The simple act feels strangely intimate and oddly familiar, as if we’ve done this a hundred times before.

I step around to his front, keeping my eyes fixed on the buttons as I begin to fasten them. My fingers brush against the warm skin of his chest, and I hear his breath catch.

Or maybe that’s my breath. It’s hard to tell when all my senses are overwhelmed by his proximity.

“You’ve done this before,” he observes.

I shake my head. “Not for a man. But I used to help Mom get dressed when she was too weak from the chemo.”

His expression shifts. Something that might be respect flickers in those ice-blue eyes.

“The pants,” he says when I finish with the last button.

I retrieve them from the garment bag, kneeling to hold them open so he can step in. The position puts me at eye level with parts of him I have no business looking at. I fix my gaze firmly on the floor.

He steps into the pants, his hand bracing briefly on my shoulder for balance. The casual touch burns through the fabric of my blouse.

I rise quickly and turn away as he zips and fastens them himself. Small mercies.

“Cufflinks are in the inside pocket of the jacket,” he instructs.

I find them easily—platinum, with small sapphires that match his eyes perfectly. Of course they do. Everything about Vincent Akopov is deliberately, meticulously coordinated.

He extends his wrists toward me, one at a time. The shirt cuffs gape open, waiting.

I take his right hand first, cradling it in my left palm as I work the cufflink through the buttonholes with my right. His skin is surprisingly warm, his pulse steady beneath my fingers. My own heart is racing like I’ve just run a marathon.

“You have gentle hands,” he says softly.

I look up, startled by the unexpected compliment. Our eyes meet, and something shifts in the air between us. The office suddenly feels too small, too warm, too intimate.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

I move to his left wrist, repeating the process. As I slide the second cufflink into place, my fingers brush against the inside of his wrist. He inhales sharply, and I feel an answering tug low in my belly.

“Sorry,” I murmur, though I’m not sure what I’m apologizing for.

“Don’t be.”

His fingers close around mine. My pulse jumps erratically, a trapped bird beating against my ribcage.

“Your heart is racing,” he observes.

“It’s… warm in here,” I lie.

He smiles, knowing exactly what effect he has on me. “Is it?”

I try to pull my hand away, but he holds it firmly, turning it over to examine my palm like he’s reading my future in the lines there.

“You bite your nails.”

I flush with embarrassment. “Bad habit.”

“Nervous habit,” he corrects, his thumb tracing the curve of my palm. “What makes you nervous, Rowan?”

You. This. The way you make me feel. The things I know about you. The things I don’t know but suspect.

“Everything,” I admit.

His eyes darken at my honesty. He brings my hand to his mouth, pressing his lips to my palm in a gesture that’s somehow more intimate than a real kiss would have been.

“Good,” he says against my skin. “Fear keeps you alert. Keeps you alive.”

The implied threat should terrify me. Instead, it sends another pulse of heat between my legs.

What is wrong with me?

He releases my hand abruptly, breaking the spell. “The bow tie.”