Chapter 29

I move my hand higher, just to the edge of propriety. Her breath catches, but she maintains her composure.

“Vincent,” Irina interrupts, “perhaps business can wait until tomorrow? We were having such a stimulating conversation.”

I reluctantly withdraw my hand from Rowan’s thigh, not missing the small exhale of relief (or is it disappointment?) that escapes her lips.

“Of course,” I agree. “That will be all for now, Ms. St. Clair.”

Rowan nods, rising quickly. “Thank you, sir. Ms. Petrov, it was nice meeting you.”

As she walks back to her table, I catch Irina watching her with calculating eyes.

“She seems… efficient,” she remarks, the word dripping with disdain.

I take another sip of scotch. “One of my most valuable employees.”

“Hmm. I’m sure.” Her smile is all teeth now. “Though perhaps a bit young and inexperienced for such a senior position?”

I meet her gaze directly. “I value potential over experience.”

“Is that what you call it?” She laughs, the sound like ice cubes clinking in a glass. “My father mentioned you had taken a particular interest in your new assistant. I see he wasn’t exaggerating.”

That puts a twist of anger on my face. “Your father should concern himself with his own business.”

“Our business is soon to be shared business, is it not?” She reaches across the table, placing her hand over mine. Her skin is cold to the touch, a flopping fish, an ice sculpture pawing at me in a way I despise. “That’s why we’re here, after all.”

I force myself not to scowl or pull away. “We’re here because our fathers think it’s a good idea. Let’s not pretend otherwise.”

Her smile falters. “Direct, aren’t you?”

“Always.” I glance over at Rowan again, finding her already looking at me. She quickly drops her gaze back to her tablet. “It saves time.”

“Then let me be direct as well.” Irina leans forward, cleavage strategically displayed. “I don’t care if you fuck your assistant. I don’t care if you fuck every assistant in your building. All I care about is the arrangement our families have discussed. The appearance of a proper marriage. The combining of our interests.”

I raise an eyebrow. “How very modern of you.”

“I’m a pragmatist, Vincent. Just like you.” She takes a delicate sip of champagne. “We could be good together. Powerful. We understand each other’s worlds. We speak the same language.”

She’s right. We do.

But suddenly, that language feels hollow.

“The duck here is excellent,” I say, changing the subject abruptly. “I recommend it highly.”

The rest of dinner is a haze of expensive food and meaningless conversation. I answer when appropriate, nod at the right moments, but my mind is elsewhere.

It’s on soft skin under silk. On the small gasp Rowan couldn’t quite suppress when I touched her. One glance at her is all it takes to know her mind is doing the same self-torture that mine is.

Dreaming of moans cascading down empty office hallways. Wondering how it would feel if I bound her wrists with my black silk tie and hiked that green dress up and over her hips. She’s wondering, just like me, how pretty she’d gasp when my fingers found her wetness.

She’d yearn for it.

She’d burn for it.

When the bill arrives—or rather, when I signal for it and sign without looking at the amount—Irina excuses herself to the ladies’ room. The moment she’s gone, I gesture for Rowan to join me.

She approaches cautiously, like she’s afraid I might reach for her thigh again. No—like she’s afraid she might want me to.

“Is there something you need, sir?” she asks, her voice carefully professional.

“Your assessment,” I say.

She blinks. “Of what?”

“Ms. Petrov. Your impressions.”

Rowan hesitates, clearly struggling with how honest to be. “She seems… suitable.”

“Suitable,” I repeat, amused by her diplomatic answer. “Is that all?”

“She’s beautiful,” Rowan admits. “And she clearly comes from your world. She understands things I don’t.”

I lean back in my chair, studying her face. “You don’t like her.”

“It’s not my place to like or dislike your potential bride.”

“But you don’t.”

She meets my eyes directly, something she rarely does. “No. I don’t.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s cold.” The words come out in a torrid rush, like she can’t hold them back. “She’s looking at you like you’re a merger, not a man. And she kept checking her phone under the table when she thought you weren’t looking.”

I laugh, genuinely surprised by her observation. “Did she?”

Rowan nods. “Three times.”

“Good eye.” I find myself smiling at her—a real smile, not the calculated one I’ve been giving Irina all night. “What else?”

“She—” Rowan stops as Irina emerges from the ladies’ room. “Is there anything else you need, Mr. Akopov?”

“Wait in the car,” I tell her. “We’ll be leaving shortly.”

She nods and retreats, passing Irina on her way out. The two women exchange tight smiles that wouldn’t fool anyone.

“Shall we?” I ask Irina, rising to help her with her coat.

“Of course.” She allows me to guide her outside, where my driver waits with the car. Rowan is already inside, seated as far from the door as possible.

I kiss Irina’s hand in the formal way expected of me. “I’ll be in touch.”

“I look forward to it.” She glances past me to the car, where Rowan sits visible through the window. “Perhaps next time, just the two of us?”

I don’t bother giving her an answer.

Once she’s safely in her own car, I slide into the backseat beside Rowan. The privacy partition is already up. Smart girl.

“Did I make you uncomfortable earlier?” I ask, my fingers once again drawing slow, meandering paths on the silk of her dress. The air in here is objectively cool, but against my skin, it’s like we’re standing in the middle of a forest fire.

“Yes.” She doesn’t pull away. “But not for the reason you think.”

“Tell me.”

Her breathing quickens. “Because I wanted you to keep going. And I shouldn’t. You’re my boss. You’re on a date with another woman. A woman who makes so much more sense for you than I ever could.”

“Is that what you think?” My hand steals higher, soaking up the heat of her through the thin fabric. The slit is there, just inches away. If I pushed my hand beneath it… “That Irina Petrov makes sense for me?”

“Doesn’t she?” Rowan’s voice is breathy now. She’s as aware as I am that there are mere millimeters separating my fingertips from finding out whether or not she’s wearing any panties. “She’s from your world. She’s— She’s⁠—”

“Cold,” I finish for her. “Like you said. And you know what? I’m sick of it. Everything in my life already is.” My fingers find the hem of her dress, slipping just underneath to touch bare skin. “I’m tired of ice, Ms. St. Clair. I want fire instead.”

Her lips part, but whatever she was going to say is lost as the car stops. We’ve reached her apartment building.

I withdraw my hand slowly, already missing the warmth of her. “We have another dinner in a few days. Katerina Volkov.”

Rowan nods, her eyes still dark with desire. “I’ll be ready.”

“Green again,” I tell her. “I like you in green.”

She opens the door, but pauses before stepping out. “Vince?”

“Yes?”

“What are we doing?”

The question contains multitudes.

I smile, knowing exactly what she’s asking but unwilling to give her the answer she wants. Not yet. “Playing the game, little doe. The only way to win is to see it through to the end.”

She nods, understanding even as disappointment flickers across her face. “Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight, Rowan.”

I watch her walk to her building, shoulders squared despite the confusion I know she must be feeling. Only when she’s safely inside do I signal the driver to continue on to my penthouse.