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“Paige?” Rowan asks, frowning. “Are you okay?”
“No. We’ve got to go. Now.” I slam my laptop closed, nearly spilling my coffee.
Rowan is confused, but she follows my lead, gathering her stuff. “But why? What happened?”
“I think I’m being followed,” I whisper.
Rowan arches around, scanning the room. “Like stalked? By who?”
I utter his name just as he passes by the window, slipping out of sight.
“Petyr Ivanov.”
47
PAIGE
Rowan’s face pales immediately.How much does she know?
When I was Misha’s assistant, he took me with him to a meeting. Has Rowan been to one? Has she seen the thirty-two guns Misha came armed with to make sure Petyr wouldn’t try to kill him?
But even after that show of force, Petyr sent a car to crash into us. Just so he could kill Misha.
Now, he’s here, and I don’t have thirty-two guns. I don’t even have one gun. What I do have is Misha’s baby in my belly. And somehow, I don’t think that will do anything to endear me to Petyr Ivanov.
“We have to go,” Rowan echoes, as if I don’t already know that.
The moment we step out of the coffee shop, I doubt my decision. Maybe we should have stayed put. I could have called Misha to come get us.
But that could have put him in danger.
My one solace is that we’re on a crowded street. There’s very little Petyr can do openly, right?
Right?
“Where is he?” Rowan whispers in my ear as we start walking down the road. “Do you see him?”
“No. I—”
“Hello, ladies.” Petyr steps out of the alleyway between the coffee shop and the building next door, a warm smile plastered across his gaunt features. “How funny, running into you here.”
I can feel Rowan tense by my side. I know enough about her past to know that she has a fear of angry men. I put myself in front of her and stare Petyr down.
“It’s not so funny when it’s planned,” I growl. “I hate to break it to you, Mr. Ivanov—”
“Call me Petyr,” he says warmly. “Please.”
I glare at him, hiding how taken aback I am by his boldness. “If you’ll excuse us,Petyr, we have to get back to work.”
“Surely, you can spare a few minutes to talk to a friend.”
“For a friend? Sure,” I agree. “But I don’t see any friends here.”
“You wound me, Ms. Masters,” he says. “But perhaps you’re right. We’re not friends. Yet. I have a feeling we could be, though.”
“Not as long as I work for Misha Orlov.”
“That’s true. The man you work for is dangerous.”
