Chapter 28

VINCE

Per Se is exactly what it’s designed to be—exclusive, expensive, impressive. The type of place where the waitstaff hovers just out of sight until needed, then materializes like well-dressed ghosts to bow until their noses scrape the floor.

I loathe it.

Too sterile. Too predictable. Too fucking boring.

Kind of like this date.

“The caviar here is flown in from the Caspian Sea every morning,” Irina Petrov informs me, her perfectly manicured finger tracing the rim of her champagne flute. “Though I imagine you already know that.”

Irina is objectively beautiful. That’s a fact, not an opinion. Long, dark hair, skin like porcelain, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. She’s wearing a red dress that’s been poured onto a figure that many plastic surgeons have worked tirelessly to perfect.

But all I can think about is green.

Green like the dress Rowan is wearing. Another creation I had specially delivered this morning. Another shade that makes her eyes shine like a precious gem I’ve dug out of the dirt myself.

Rowan sits at a small table nearby—close enough to be summoned if needed, far enough to give the illusion of privacy. She’s pretending to work on her tablet, but I can see the tension in her shoulders. She’s listening to every word.

Good.

Thoughts of what a jealous Rowan might do have consumed me since the observation first sparked in my head at the gala. Seeing her in her apartment last night confirmed it: she’s dying inside. The mere mention of me on a date with another woman has her fucking seething.

Never mind that I can’t stand these women, that I don’t have the least desire to so much as make eye contact with them, much less take them to bed. Rowan doesn’t know that and I don’t intend to tell her.

Jealousy is too beautiful of a shade of green on her.

“My father speaks highly of your business expansion plans,” Irina continues, dragging my attention back to her. “Particularly the new shipping routes through the Baltic.”

I take a sip of my scotch, doing my damndest to keep my disinterest from showing. “Does he?”

“Mmm. He believes our families could benefit from closer cooperation.” Her lips curve into what I’m sure she thinks is a seductive smile.

I’ve seen that exact smile on a dozen women before her. It’s never been less impressive.

“Cooperation is always valuable,” I reply noncommittally.

My eyes drift back to Rowan. She’s tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. That nervous habit of hers. I wonder if she knows she does it. I wonder if she knows that, every time she does, I imagine wrapping that same hair around my fist and pushing her onto her knees.

“Vincent?” Irina’s voice has an edge now. “Am I boring you?”

Yes. Profoundly.

“Not at all,” I lie smoothly. “Please, continue about your father’s opinions.”

She launches into another rehearsed monologue about family alliances and business synergies. All code, of course. She’s talking about the Bratva. About becoming the power couple of the Russian underworld.

Under different circumstances, I might be interested. She’s smart, she’s connected, she speaks the language of our world fluently. The perfect bride for a man in my position.

Yet all I can focus on is the way Rowan shifts in her chair. How her teeth gnaw at her lower lip as she pretends not to watch us.

What’s happening inside of her, I wonder? Is she squirming in discomfort? Does she wish it was her in red, flirting with me, bragging to me, so utterly assured that this night will end the way she wants it to?

Or does the little voyeur like her seat, her point of view? Is she getting the peep show she hoped for? Is she dreaming of more?

“Excuse me,” I tell Irina, pulling out my phone. “I need to check something with my assistant.”

Before she can respond, I’m already signaling to Rowan. She rises immediately and approaches our table, tablet in hand.

“Yes, Mr. Akopov?”

“The Nakamura contracts,” I say. “Have they been finalized?”

She blinks, confused. We both know there are no Nakamura contracts pending.

“Not yet, sir. I’ll check on their status if you’d like.”

“That won’t be necessary.” I gesture to the chair beside me. “Have a seat. There are a few details we should go over.”

Irina’s eyes narrow, but her social training prevents her from showing any real displeasure.

Rowan hesitates. “Now, sir? I don’t want to interrupt your dinner.”

“It won’t take long.”

She sits beside me, careful to maintain a professional distance. I can smell her perfume—the one I had sent to her apartment along with the dress. Light. Fresh. Nothing like the heavy, cloying scent Irina bathes in.

“Ms. Petrov,” I say, “this is my executive assistant, Rowan St. Clair. Rowan, this is Irina Petrov.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Rowan says, extending her hand.

Irina takes it with the enthusiasm of someone picking up a dead rat. “Likewise.”

I place my hand on Rowan’s knee under the table. The whisper of silk between us is offensive to me. I want the hot flush of her skin right up against mine. Fuck this barrier.

But for now, I leave it be. Just the weight of my hand on her thigh.

She jumps, her eyes darting to mine in shock.

“Next quarter’s projections,” I say, as if nothing’s happening beneath the tablecloth. “Do we have them ready for the board meeting?”

My hand slides an inch higher on her thigh. The silk of her dress is smooth under my palm. I dream about shredding it, burning the shreds, ejecting them into fucking orbit for the crime of hiding Rowan’s body from me.

“Y-yes,” she stammers. “They’re in your inbox for review.”

“Excellent.” My fingers draw zig-zags on her thigh, teasing closer and closer to the slit in her gown. I can feel her muscles tense beneath my touch. “And the London office? Any updates?”

Irina is watching us with laser focus now. She’s not stupid. She senses something’s off.

“All on schedule,” Rowan manages, her voice impressively steady despite the flush creeping up her neck.

Yes, that’s what I want, little doe. I want that flush to consume you. I want to know you’re burning up, green and red, red and green, a melting pot of need and lust and angst and anger. I want you to be fucking furious that this haughty princess here gets to make eyes at me while you tap away on your tablet and do my bidding. While you sit there and take every goddamn thing I give you without a word of complaint.

I want to light you on fire and watch you burn.

And only when you beg for my help will I step in to douse the flames.