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But he’s got one hell of an ass.
“Temptation has to have some sparkle,” Grandma used to say. “Otherwise, it wouldn’t be tempting.”
Timofey Viktorov definitely qualifies as tempting. “Or maybe he’s glistening with other people’s blood,” I murmur to myself.
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I check the corners of the room for cameras or any obvious recording devices. I don’t see anything.
Which I suppose makes sense. Whatever business Timofey is conducting in here, he probably doesn’t want a record of it.
Then again, I wouldn’t put it past him to keep some personal, secret archives. The easiest way to control people is to have dirt on them. What better way to get dirt than to catch them when they think they’re alone?
I pinch my lips closed, silently promising myself I’ll control my tongue. Timofey has enough to hold over my head without me offering up more.
I walk around his desk and drop down into the chair. My legs dangle a couple inches off the floor. I reach under the seat and adjust the height to suit me, mostly out of spite. When Timofey sits down later and his knees hit his chest, he’ll think of me.
A little thrill wiggles through my chest at that thought. Not that I care what he thinks of me. Or how he thinks of me. Or when he thinks of me.
“God,” I groan, dropping my face into my hands. “How am I going to survive here?”
I did my best to hold my own in the meeting with all of Timofey’s men sizing me up, but the moment I stepped into the hallway, I wanted to collapse. It took all I had to make it back to this office and close the door.
My entire childhood was me scanning for incoming threats and then knocking them down or avoiding them before they could take me out. It took me years to stop assessing every situation for signs of danger, to stop assuming the worst about people.
Forty-eight hours with Timofey and I’ve reverted back to my most basic, trauma-based instincts.
Another forty-eight, and I might be in the fetal position on the floor.
Or dead.
I shake my head. “No. No, you won’t. You’ll be fine. You’ll…” I look across his desk in search of something. A weapon or collateral or a secret lever to open an underground escape tunnel.
Even if I had a bazooka, I don’t think I could take Timofey in a physical fight. And where would I escape to? My apartment is compromised, he’s already broken into Ashley’s place, and I’m sure he knows where Noelle and my grandma each live.
There’s nowhere to go.
“So I have to stay here and fight in the only way I can.” I roll the chair away from the desk and start opening drawers.
Maybe it’s a bad idea to fight fire with fire, but I’ve never heard any adages about fighting blackmail with blackmail. That can’t possibly go wrong, right?
But Timofey’s drawers are surprisingly boring. Mostly office supplies and sheets full of numbers that Wayne the forensic accountant might understand, but are absolute gibberish to me.
When the drawers prove to be a bust, I shift to the bookshelf. The few books that are there are in Russian, so I amuse myself by pretending they’re all on self-help topics.
“How to Make Friends: Advice for Aggro Assholes.”I snicker and point to another book. “Overcoming Your Micro Penis.”
I’m being childish. I can admit that.
It doesn’t mean it’s not fun.
There is a crystal paperweight and a gold desk lamp with a green glass shade, but it’s all impersonal business-y decorations. Like Timofey hired an interior decorator and gave her the direction,“Make sure people know I’m rich.”
As if the mansion wouldn’t be clue enough.
I climb hesitantly onto the thin ledge below the shelves, stretching onto my toes to see up to the highest shelf. It’s probably pointless, but there’s no point in leaving a stone unturned. If I have to be stuck in this office waiting for him, I might as well make use of the time.
It’s more of the same. Dusty books, a reed diffuser that I can only assume is loaded with the scent of leather, new hundred-dollar bills, man musk, and a gilded cigar box. I reach for the box and tip it out, expecting contraband Cuban cigars or the fingers of his enemies to spill out.
Instead, a gold locket tumbles onto the shelf.
