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Then again, Misha is never what I expect.
Angry at how stupidly beautiful they are, I slam the box closed and drop it on the bedside table. Layna is waiting expectantly. I give her a tight smile. “I’d love to have a massage, but I’m afraid one hour is all I can spare. Then I’ve got to get to work.”
She nods. “If you’re sure.”
“Extremely sure. Thank you.”
I spend an hour on her massage table, stewing until all my tension turns to anger. I can’t really say that I feel more relaxed after the massage. Layna notices.
“You are very stressed, ma’am,” she says in her soft voice. “There are several knots in your back I couldn’t seem to work out.”
Because my husband is an ass and no amount of kneading can fix that.I swallow down the response and smile. “You’re a masseuse, not a miracle worker. Don’t worry about it.”
She nods, bows, and slips out of the room with her equipment in hand.
The moment she’s gone, I decide to work my tension out in my own way. I head into my closet to find something to wear.
I choose a tight black pencil skirt and a red blouse from the items that Misha had delivered. It’s slightly see-through and boasts just enough of my newfound pregnancy cleavage to guarantee that I’ll snare his attention, which is exactly what I’m after. I finish with a matching shade of red lipstick and heels high enough that I might come face-to-face with my husband even when he’s all the way up on top of his high horse.
On the ride to Orion, I try to perfect my mask of cold professionalism. Much like the one my husband insists on donning whenever he’s around me.
I’ve seen behind it a few times. Last night, for instance. He showed me a softer side to himself. He let me peek behind the curtain.
Which is probably why he got the hell out of that room the moment I was asleep.
Anger rises up in me again at the abandonment, but I take a deep breath. I need to focus if I’m going to beat him at his own game.
I march into the office with my head held high, my heels clacking loudly against the hard floor. But I stop short the moment I see my desk. Or what should be my desk, anyway.
Because there’s another woman sitting behind it looking entirely too comfortable.
And entirely too gorgeous.
I march up and look down at the blonde woman sitting in my chair. “Excuse me, who are you?”
She looks up at me with simpering baby blues that make me want to stab her in both of them. She gets to her feet tremulously, and I note how perfectly her little black dress fits her. “Um, I was told that you had moved departments, ma’am,” she says nervously. “I’ve been Mr. Orlov’s secretary for the last few days.”
I’m irate. He’d gone and replaced me with America’s Next Top Model, and the bastard hadn’t breathed a word about it.
“Where is he?” I demand.
“Um… he’s in—”
Before she can finish her sentence, I brush past her and blow my way into his office.
Misha and Konstantin are on either side of his desk. Both men turn as I walk in, but I have eyes only for my husband.
“Howdareyou?” I hiss.
The two men exchange a glance, and I shake my head. “Konstantin, I need to speak to Misha, please.Alone.”
“Of course,” he says, jumping to his feet. He turns back to Misha briefly. “Hooo boy, you’re in for it now. She came dressed for a fight, too.”
Then he scurries past me and closes the door.
I glare at Misha. “He’s not wrong. Who is the woman at my desk?”
“That would be Althea. My new secretary.”
