The laugh dies. The air in the room changes. “Standard security,” he says, reading my face. “Everyone at a family event gets run beforehand.”
It’s plausible. I half-believe it. But the way he said it—too quick, too smooth—snags on something I can’t name. “Then you already know I’m not an assassin.”
“I know your address. That’s not the same thing.” He lifts his glass. “Daniil is running a full background. It takes seventy-two hours. You will wait here until it's complete.”
“Seventy-two—“ I stop. Restart. "You’re keeping me here for three days because of abackground check?"
“You’re free to go the moment it clears.”
“Then call Nikolai and clear it in thirty seconds.”
“No.”
“Why not?“
He looks at me. Just looks at me, level and steady, and doesn’t answer.
And that’s when it hits me. This isn’t about the check. The check is the excuse. Heknowsit’s an excuse. And I know it’s an excuse. And we’re both going to pretend we don’t know, apparently, while I stand in his penthouse suite with no more than a decorative purse as a weapon and my pulse pounding at the base of my throat. I've never felt more alive. I've never understood thrill seekers, never wanted to bungee jump or hang glide across a canyon, but this I get. This adrenaline race in my veins could be addictive. Dangerously so.
“I have school on Monday,” I say, because I need to say something.
“It’s Friday.”
“I haveplanson Saturday.“
"They've just changed.” I stare at him. He stares back. Neither of us moves.
“You’re drunk,” I finally say.
His mouth tilts. Not quite a smile. More wicked than one. “A little. Are you?”
“No.” Beat. “Alittle. One glass of champagne.“
“Sit down, Laura.” He nods at the chair across from him. “We’re going to be here for a while. You might as well be comfortable.”
I don’t sit. Instead, I cross my arms and stay exactly where I am, which is the only thing I have left.
He’s amused. It’s there in the slight shift of his jaw, the quirk of his lips. It’s either patience or entertainment.
“How old are you?” he asks.
“Twenty-two.” He arches his brow. “I’ll be twenty-three next month.”
“Oh.” He sets his glass on the side table. “Old. Ancient.”
I almost laugh. I catch it, barely, but he sees it—sees the almost—and his expression answers it. “Sit down,” he says again. Quieter.
I sit. He pours me a drink without asking. I should decline. I pick it up.
The suite settles around us, the city burning beyond the glass. “Tell me the truth,” he says. "Why did you follow me? If you're not an assassin, why were you stalking me?"
"I was not stalking."
"Then what were you doing, little girl?"
It's the little girl that does it. He doesn't see me as a threat. He doesn't even see me as a woman. I gulp the alcohol, but it's that thought that burns. I look at him over the rim of the glass. "Truth? I saw you and thought you were gorgeous. Like a tiger, moving with strength and purpose. Dangerous and aloof. Unobtainable. Confident. I've never been that sure of myself in my life. I had questions. I wondered…" I take more of the drink, hoping for courage. "What would it be like to have the attention of a man like that? Even if it were just for one night. To be the object of that absolute focus…"
“And how is it? You followed me. You found me attractive.” He tilts his head. “That doesn't explain why you’re still here.”
