“Like what?”
“How would I know? We just met.” Her thumb brushes along my knuckles. “Your accent is sexy. Russian?”
“Yes.”
“Say something in Russian.”
“Ty samaya krasivaya zhenshchina v mire.”
“What does that mean?”
“I like your shirt.”
“Thanks,” she says pertly. “I got it on clearance. In Paris.”
“I like the color.”
“Do you always wear black?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It doesn’t stain.”
“Are you an artist? Doctor? Chef?”
“Humanitarian.”
Her lips twitch. “I didn’t realize that was such a messy profession. Do you donate to charities?”
I shake my head. “Only symphonies.”
Carina grimaces. “You had to bring that up when I’m annoyed with you.”
“You’re annoyed with me? We literally just met?—”
We are still shaking—holding—hands. I realize that because Carina abruptly drops mine in favor of rising onto her tiptoes, flinging her arms around my neck, and kissing me. I kiss her back. And it’s familiar. The warm friction of her lips, the soft hum she makes when our tongues touch, the simmering desperation. There’s never a next kiss planned when we’re together. We’re forever on the brink of a last time, and that’s especially evident right now.
Her mouth moves to my neck, sucking just below my pulse point. “Can we go back to the hotel?”
Reason fights the fog of lust long enough for me to remember why that’s a bad idea. I knew it was a possibility we wouldn’t return—smartest and safest for her to leave as soon as possible. Even if Seamus hadn’t complicated things, the longer we spend together, the greater the possibility we’re seen by someone connected.
Cillian has every inch of this place covered with cameras. He’s paranoid, with one exception—the office where he does business.
“This way.” I grab Carina’s hand and pull her farther down the hallway, away from the crowd that’s still audible in the opposite direction.
I stop at the last doorway, keying in the code.
“Are we allowed to be back here?” Carina asks, a few threads of nerves appearing in her tone.
“Yes.”
The light flashes green, followed by a brief beep.
“Why do I feel like you’d say that, no matter what?” She enters first, right hand covering the outline of her gun.
She’s changed. Maybe that was inevitable, now that I know who her father is, but I can’t help but feel like I contributed to her corruption. That if I’d left her alone, never manufactured that second meeting, she’d be onstage with Chicago’s symphony right now. She’d have settled down, maybe with that guy from the alley, if I hadn’t kept returning to disrupt her life. Maybe she’d be married by now, and her father couldn’t have used her in whatever deal he negotiated with Nico Morello.
