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It’s almost worse that he’s talking softly. Almost warmly. There’s a quasi-friendliness to the way he is laying down exactly what is going to happen.
The fear lies in the unknown of what happens when hestopsbeing quite so friendly.
Francia raises her hand like she’s in school. “We can’t leave. We’ll be fired.”
Ivan turns to her. “There are worse things than being fired. Just worry about doing what I say, Francia.”
Shame coils up my spine. He knows her name. He knows my name.
What else does he know?
“I don’t care about being fired,” Jorden spits. “What are you doing with Cora?”
I shake my head at her. I appreciate the concern, but I don’t want her involved in whatever the hell this is.
Another man steps forward and ushers Jorden and Francia towards the front door. “Cora will be fine. Don’t worry about her.”
Jorden turns her disgruntled gaze to the man. “Who are you?”
He keeps herding her to the exit. “My name is Yasha. Not that that matters to you.”
Yasha and Jorden disappear. Francia is already outside with one of the big thugs. Another shepherds the rest of the kitchen staff out with nothing more than brief, confused glances in my direction. As soon as they see Ivan watching them, they snap their attention away. As if even looking at me might be crossing a line.
I could cry out for help, but it wouldn’t make any difference.
Ivan Pushkin always gets what he wants.
And right now, for whatever reason, he wants me.
When we’re alone, Ivan flips the open sign to “Closed” and turns back to me. I’m frozen in place and flushed from head to toe as he saunters closer. “You lied to me. You’re not Francia Delacour.”
“I’m also not an investigative journalist.” I throw my arms wide, gesturing to my polyester waitressing uniform. “In case you couldn’t tell.”
He snatches my wrist out of the air. My breath catches in my throat. “What is your aim?”
“I don’t have an ‘aim.’”
His eyes narrow. They’re dangerous eyes—predatory eyes. “You loathed every single person at my house—myself included—yet you used your friend’s name to get inside and find me.”
“Youfoundme,” I correct him. “I told you to leave me alone, remember?”
“And then you stripped naked in my office.” As if remembering the scene, his eyes slip down my body.
My skin prickles with awareness. “My dress fell apart. I didn’t have a choice!”
“Someone coached you well. You have an answer for everything.”
“I wasn’t coached. I’m not—” I groan in frustration. “I’m the one who left you, remember? You told me to stay and wait for you, but I left.”
“Maybe you left because you got what you wanted.”
“Oh, that’s right.” I snap my fingers. “Don’t you remember reading off your debit card and PIN number between orgasms? That was my dastardly plan and you fell right into my trap. If you see a suspiciously high Target charge on your credit card statement, you’ll know which villain is responsible.”
I’m not sure where this confident, feisty streak has come from, but it’s the only thing keeping me standing.
“I don’t take you for a woman who is so easily satisfied.”
He’s wrong about that. I wasveryeasily satisfied last night. Several times, actually.
