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“Come, come,” Anya says, gesturing for me to follow her. She leads me through several rooms, all equally lavish and luxurious, until we reach a large door at the end of a corridor. As we reach it, it feels as if all of my muscles seize. I come to an abrupt halt.
“Mr. Vyronov is waiting for you in his study.” She pushes the door open, and still, my muscles refuse to cooperate. She clears her throat.
“Right. Yes. Of course,” I stutter. I set my mind on my goal again.
Get the money.
Find a way to escape this prison.
I take a step in, and she shuts the door behind me, leaving me feeling trapped until I manage to pull my wits about me. Yet again, I’m looking at a room that seems too plush to be real. Except where the others were bright and airy, this one is purely masculine. Dark wood paneling lines the walls, and the furnishings are large and imposing, giving me the impression of a throne room rather than an office.
And in the center of it all sits a huge man behind a huge desk.
Broad, powerful; even seated, he exudes a sense of being larger than life. But it’s more than simply his physical presence. His pure animal magnetism is undeniable – although I’d love to deny it. I try to ignore the way his shirt pulls across his massive chest or the way the light picks out the fine silver strands in his dark hair.
Kirill Vyronov.
I try not to choke as my mouth dries up. After the first time I saw him, I’ve been wondering if I’d simply imagined how good-looking he was.
I didn’t.
If anything, I probably didn’t give him enough credit. As bizarre as it is to say this, the man is next-level hot. But he’s surely an arrogant bastard because he barely seems to notice that I’m here. He doesn’t even bother to stand up as I enter the room, just gestures for me to come closer with one hand while he holds his phone to his ear with the other.
What the hell?
Asshole.
“Da,” he says into the phone, his voice almost unnaturally deep and rich with that accent I remember. “You know what to do. Make it happen.”
He hangs up and turns his attention fully on me. I can feel my heart racing in my chest as he stares at me with eyes that look too much like a stormy sky. His dark, greying hair is styled in a perfectly messy way that makes him look effortlessly handsome. Not a wrinkly old billionaire; definitely not.
And I hate the fact that I’m even noticing.
“You have arrived safely, I see,” he says, standing up from his seat and walking around the desk to stop in front of me. I’m standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, my hands clasped in front of me. I tilt my head to look up at him. He is as tall as I remembered. And broad, too. His shoulders strain against the cotton of his black dress shirt.
“What did you expect? That your driver would take me off to some other guy who buys women?” In spite of my bravado, I’m feeling incredibly small under his intense gaze. The feeling gets worse as I see his lips twitch. They’re oddly sensual for a man; firm, perfectly shaped. His jaw is square, and there’s a dimple in the center of it.
And why the hell are you looking at him, Tiana?
Jesus, I definitely need to get my head examined.
I fold my arms over my chest, glad that today I’m wearing a plain blue T-shirt and not a see-through tramp dress. Although, when his eyes dip down, I feel just as exposed.
“I expected that my driver would do as instructed,” he says, reaching out to brush a curl from my cheek. I don’t notice that I’m holding my breath until he lowers his hand, and the air rushes from my lungs. “Just as I expect you to do the same, Tiana.”
“In your dreams,” I mutter. My voice is hoarse. He chuckles, and I try not to squeeze my eyes shut.
Play it cool, Tee.
Focus on the task.
Take the money and find an escape route.
I keep repeating the words in my head as he sweeps a gaze from my eyes down my chest to my feet and then back again. I feel it like a hot touch on my skin, and when his stare pauses on my chest, I know that my nipples are poking against the fabric of my shirt. And my folded arms are only serving to push my breasts out.
For fuck’s sake!
I told myself I can’t think of him that way and look at what I’m doing. This has to stop. Now.
