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Vance’s brows knit together. “I wasn’t aware there was any more business to attend to today, ma’am. I would have scouted ahead.”
“It’s a last-minute arrangement,” I say hastily. “Come on. I don’t want to be late.”
He opens his mouth, no doubt prepared with another question. Vance ends up nodding, instead. Credit where credit is due, the man clearly understands who’s calling the shots around here. “Yes, ma’am. Whatever you say.”
* * *
The moment I step into the elevator, I consider turning around and walking right back out again. Unfortunately, Mom didn’t raise me to be a chicken.
Don’t be a fucking coward.
Oh, I’ll show him.
Walking down the hall is surreal. An out of body experience. My nerves are on fire, and that little voice in the back of my head is now screaming at me to turn around. I recognize the danger of the situation, can understand meeting with Andrei without an ounce of backup, is probably the stupidest thing I can do. But I’m curious, too. Curious and eager and practically buzzing to see what happens next.
If curiosity ends up killing this cat, then I really have no one else to blame but myself.
I walk to room 405. When I checked in with the receptionist, she informed me my ‘husband’ had already arrived. I don’t know what makes my heart pound faster—the fact that Andrei dared to use such a blatantly awful cover story, or the fact that she actually believed him.
Holding my breath, I knock on the door.
It opens almost immediately, prompting me to ask, “How long were you standing there?”
“Not long. Get inside before someone sees you.”
The door shuts softly behind me, but he might as well have slammed it closed—the tension in the air is so thick and heavy it’s a miracle I can even breathe. We stand on either side of the entryway, staring at each other with laser focus. He doesn’t make a move. Neither do I. I don’t know what to think, what to say, or what to do. All I know is if he keeps looking at me like that, I’m going to lose my mind.
“Spread your arms and legs,” I command.
He frowns. “Why the hell should I?”
“I want to pat you down for weapons.”
Andrei chuckles. At least, I think it’s a chuckle. The thought of someone like Andrei managing anything other than a scowl feels like something ripped from fiction. Nevertheless, he puts his arms out to the side and spreads his legs shoulder-width apart.
I waste no time patting him down. His arms, his chest, his waist. I’m rough with him on purpose, mostly because I want to piss him off, but also because there’s something deeply satisfying about finally putting my hands on him. Getting to touch wherever I want,howI want. I click my tongue in disappointment when I find his Beretta tucked into the holster beneath his jacket. I’m quick to release the magazine and remove the slide assembly from the frame, rendering it useless.
“Seriously?” I grumble.
“What?” he asks. “Can’t blame a guy for being cautious, right?”
“You better not try anything funny. My guys are sitting outside on the street.”
Andrei’s eyes go cold. “You brought your men?”
“You didn’t?” I snap back, accusatory.
He squints at me. “Your turn. Spread your arms and legs.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Fair’s fair, Sandra.”
With a huff, I do as he asks, waiting on bated breath as he steps forward into my space. He’s just as rough with his pat down, but he takes his sweet time. The warmth of his palms and thick fingers running over my arms, my sides, all the way down to my hips sends a shiver down my spine and my heart starts bracing.
He finds one of my knives, holstered securely around my thigh beneath my dress. He draws the blade, clicks his tongue in disappointment—mimicking my reaction early—and sets it down on the table next to us.
“What’s with you and your fucking knives?” he asks bitterly.
