She pulls away and points one finger at me like she means business. “You should.”
Then she hugs Daisy around the neck, scoops up Winston, and starts toward the door with her nanny before spinning back around one last time.
“Goodnight, Maggie.”
“Goodnight, sugar.”
After she leaves, the room grows quieter in a way I feel deep down. When I look across the table, Alexei is watching me.
“Well,” I say, folding my napkin in my lap nervously. “That was… really nice.”
“It was.”
There’s a pause that feels full rather than uncomfortable, and then he speaks again.
“Stay.”
My pulse skips.
He leans back in his chair, with one hand around the stem of his wine glass. “Have a drink with me.”
A thousand sensible reasons to leave rush up all at once, but they all fade when I see how he’s looking at me, like he already knows I want to stay.
I should go home. I should remember that I’m at a private estate with a man who makes me nervous in ways that have very little to do with fear. I should do a whole lot of things.
Instead, I hear myself say, “Okay.”
His eyes hold mine for another second, and then he rises from his chair. He comes around the table and offers me his hand, and I stare at it for half a heartbeat before placing mine in it. He doesn’t grip too tightly and doesn’t tug. He simply helps me to my feet, and the second I’m standing close to him again, all that dangerous heat I’ve been trying to manage since I got here comes right back to life.
“She likes you.”
I smile before I can stop myself. “I’ve gotten attached to her faster than I meant to.”
“She trusts you.”
And mercy, there’s a whole lot in those three words.
6
ALEXEI
Maggie’s hand is still in mine. I realize it when my thumb slides over the inside of her wrist where her pulse rests just beneath the surface. I didn’t release her after helping her to her feet, and she didn’t pull away. That holds my attention because most people withdraw the moment they realize they’re touching me, creating distance even when they can’t explain the instinct.
Maggie doesn’t. Her eyes focus on where our hands meet, her lashes lowering briefly before she looks back at me. There’s a question in her eyes. I don’t let her step away from it.
“Come,” I say, my voice lower now.
Her fingers tighten against mine in response. A small tingle travels up my arm and sinks deeper. She follows when I turn.
The house is quiet around us. The staff has cleared the space, leaving only the glow of the lights and the distant hush of the ocean beyond the glass. I guide her from the dining room into the living room.
The room opens wide, the windows pulling in the dark water beyond. Light from the lamps falls across the space, brushingover polished wood, pale stone, and the clean edge of the glass table. A long sofa faces the view, the rest kept simple, everything arranged and in its place. And still, the moment she steps into it, none of that matters.
Maggie pauses just inside, her eyes moving across the room before landing on the windows, then the sofa, then the table. She doesn’t linger on anything expensive or slow for the details meant to impress. Her attention moves past all of it as if she’s already decided it doesn’t matter. It lands on the photographs near the windows.
I know which one before she even moves toward it.
She steps closer, her hand resting lightly on the edge of the table as she leans in, her body angled toward the frame. The light plays through the soft waves of her hair over her shoulder, and for a moment, that catches my attention more than the photograph.
