Page 9 of Beguiled

I’d obviously gotten lost in the numbers and not the ones on my watch I should be paying attention to. There were several aspects of Stash Chertov that were unnerving, but by far the biggest was his ability to communicate subtly yet effectively in silence. He used his deliberate actions to get his point across.

A deep sigh or a lingering look lasted long after the discussion was concluded. The way his eyes narrowed when he was scrutinizing the person sitting across from him was methodical. There was no rushing him, no pushing him into doing anything he didn’t want to do. And when a decision was made, he couldburn down the world, fire an entire room full of people, or condemn a whole week’s worth of work with just a few words.

I knew because I’d been a party to him doing so early in my employment with him. To say he was difficult to work with was an understatement.

What he lacked in words he made up for with his overbearing presence. Right now, what I felt was surge of electricity coursing through me, a live wire of activity during a raging thunderstorm. However, instead of my blood boiling as someone might expect, it felt as if ice was running through my veins.

Very slowly I looked up from the computer screen and into his eyes.

Stash was standing in the doorway, his massive body a fortress while his broad shoulders filled the space. Wearing one of his signature Stefano Ricci suits, the luxurious Italian linen accentuating every sculpted inch, his jaw was set, a usual sign of his frustration. Yet the hardline expression was incapable of downplaying his gorgeous features or muscular physique.

With the angle of the morning sun streaming in through his office windows, his entire frame was surrounded by a luminous glow. In my mind, he appeared godlike. Or maybe I should call him the antichrist given his surly attitude.

For whatever reason he was even more handsome. Maybe the bold color of his tie. Instead of the usual crisp white shirt and dark linen suit with a coordinating dark and gloomy tie, the shade was a deep maroon. Close enough to vivid for government work.

Or that of a Bratva enforcer.

I bit back a smile with the ridiculous thought.

There was no other way to describe him but as tall, dark, and devastating.

“Ms. Mitchell, I’d like to see you in my office.”

As if by some instinct I checked my watch, immediately realizing the error of my ways. Yes, he was ten minutes early in ‘fetching me,’ which he always did even with a scheduled meeting, but I should know better than to question his motives.

“Is there somewhere you’d rather be, Ms. Mitchell?”

If I didn’t know better, which I certainly did, I’d say there was a gleam in his eyes. For only a split second. Then it was gone and I was fearful the lack of sleep was creating false images.

I shook my head, more to shove away cobwebs than anything. If he only knew how I really wanted to answer him. Our sparring was Olympic level and no one, including Tawny, knew why.

Why yes, I’d rather be anywhere rather than deal with your sullen attitude and over the top entitlement. Where, you ask? I’m glad you did. Perhaps getting a root canal or listening to a full eight hours of country music piped through my iPod. Or perhaps participating in a hot dog eating contest.

Instead, I offered him the same smile I’d given the jerk outside only thirty minutes before.

Saccharine sweet with a huge dose of toxicity. “Absolutely not. Your wish is my command.”

CHAPTER 2

Saige

After hitting print with two copies of the report shot out from the printer, I stood and smoothed down my skirt. Mr. Chertov had already retreated to his office, confident I’d follow.

I grabbed the spreadsheets, not bothering to staple them. He liked paper placed in his hands, preferring the bold print instead of staring at my work on a computer screen. I’d learned a long time ago to close the door behind me. What was said in his office was to stay between the two of us.

He’d told me once he’d taken me into his confidence, yet I knew nothing about him other than that he was obviously a very wealthy man who demanded perfection.

Along with his tailored suits I was certain came directly from his frequent trips to Sicily and Rome, he drove a sleek black Porsche and enjoyed high-dollar Macallan Red scotch, which I’d learned at the Christmas party. I still couldn’t get the disgusting taste from my mouth. Or was that his kiss instead?

I’d been Tawny’s plus one, her in between boyfriends’ status my personal gain when I’d applied for the position as a financial analyst. Of course, like Tawny had said, the job had turned out to be a glorified assistant position, but since up until then I’d used my expensive degree as a coffee barista, beggars couldn’t be choosers. Money meant more to me than I cared to admit to anyone.

I had my reasons some might call noble. However, I was at the point of selling my body or my soul to advance my career and my boss didn’t see me as anything but a glorified paper pusher.

Before Stash had hired me, he’d gone through three other assistants, his tough reputation driving nails into their coffins. But I was even more resilient than he was. Of that I was firmly convinced. While he was formidable when standing across from his six-foot five-inch frame, he was equally so when sitting behind his sleek mahogany desk.

As he was right now, commanding in a way that could drive the most confident person away. But I wasn’t easily impressed or frightened. When you lived in New York, you learned to expect and see anything.

After placing his copy of the report on his desk, I expected his usual behavior of taking ten full minutes of going through it line by line. I’d initially believed he’d been trying to make me feel incompetent but had quickly realized he was simply that methodical.