Page 12 of Arranged for the Russian Pakhan

The action seems to rouse her.

“Mr. Zakharov,” she says, and it comes out sounding strained.

I’d been hoping to catch her off-guard a little, just to even the playing field a bit. But this is beyond that. She looks stricken and dazed.

It probably isn’t healthy that it makes me want to grin. Smugly.

I manage to refrain, as I say, “Darya. Forgive the intrusion.”

“You asking for my forgiveness is almost as astonishing as your invading my home.” This is how I learned that, no matter what is unfolding within her emotional landscape, nothing can leash her smart mouth. It’s really something.

She’s really something.

She meets my gaze head-on, almost convincingly unfazed. Except—I look at her too closely to be fooled by it. I look at everyone closely, and I look at her, this woman I have no business being so helplessly fascinated by, closer than anyone. I clock every inch as the shock recedes from her features.

I can see the moment she manages to fully steel herself, barricading her truth away from my prying eyes. “How did you get my address?” she demands.

“You do realize my rank?” I challenge, cocking a quizzical brow.

Darya arches one of her own, as much a response as mimicry. It’s refreshingly juvenile of her. “Nepotism doesn’t account for anything but good fortune,” she counters.

Wryly, I ask, “And how would you know that?”

If only her wrathful expression made her less irresistible. But no. She lifts her chin and narrows her eyes at me, and an unmistakable want stirs within me.

“You’re braver without watchful eyes on you,” Darya notes, no offense betrayed by her calm, even tenor. “I wonder if you’d be loose with your tongue with my brothers as an audience.”

I offer her a wan smile. “Probably not.”

If my honesty startles her, she is adamant about not letting me see it. And that’s fine. That’s expected enough. My showing up here may appear spontaneous—impulsive, even—but it isn’t, really. I haven’t had a lobotomy, for all that she’s eyeing my head like I’ve got some screws loose. I can only imagine, and I have, how she will react when I unveil my proposition to her.

That is, if I get the chance.

I doubt it when she startles me with her volume, calling out, “Vera!”

That’ll be the housekeeper, then. A brusque, but kind-faced, woman in her 40s whom I’d had to charm my way past. It had taken more work than one would think. Regardless, my palm twitches towards the gun in my holster on instinct. I have to forcibly restrain my hand. It isn’t like she’s summoned her security.

“You’re dismissed for the night, thank you,” Darya orders.

Just like that, it’s my turn to wear the shock. Darya Yuri doesn’t bother to staunch the smugness in her own smile when it sprawls. Her eyes gleam with satisfaction. She doesn’t pay Vera any mind, but I don’t miss the way the woman looks utterly taken aback.

It’s none of my goddamn business what the answer to the question is, but I still can’t help but wonder how rare it is or isn’t for Darya to have visitors of the male variety in her house.

I have no right to feel any type of way about the answer to that question, one way or the other.

Then again, it’s probably best if I do not board that train of thought to begin with. As evidenced by my obviously unwanted presence in her home, the list of things I’d do that I’ve got no right to may quickly grow endless.

It’s pretty generous of Darya to extend her arm, as she does, and invite, “Are you just going to stand there and stare at me, or would you like to sit down and tell me what the hell you’re doing here?”

It’s a fair question. It also happens to be one of those occasions where knowing me a little better, as if I am wont to give people that opportunity, would not help the hint of disbelief that never vacates her expression entirely. I am not this man. I am not a man who shows up at places unannounced and alone. Yet here I am.

This woman is perfectly within her rights to tell me to fuck off, and we both know it. It’s a commendable power move to do the opposite. Keeping me on my toes is definitely an entry on the list of talents. That list, too, is likely to be endless.

Would she be flattered to know she’s the one who’s inspired the plan in my mind? Somehow, I doubt it.

But I’m here now. And wild horses couldn’t stop me from following after her as she leads the way back into the sitting room; my eyes have already mapped every inch of it over the past half hour. Unfortunately, nothing—not even gentlemanly decency, apparently—can stop my eyes from chasing the swish of her gloriously flaring hips either.

Amusement isn’t quite the word for the look on her face when she whips around. No, it’s an emotion that’s significantly more feral than that; it’s darker.