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“Are you even old enough to drink?”
She smirks at me, expertly popping the cap off using the edge of the counter. Apparently not her first time.
“What were you doing at the warehouse?”
She counters, “Why were you blowing up the warehouse?”
We stare at each other some more. In the bright kitchen light, she’s even more beautiful. I turn the heat off, let the cheese melt into the sauce, and dump the pasta into the boiling water.
“Because Dimitri Popov decided to start a war.”
She seems to digest this. “How?”
“My turn, little one. Why were you in the warehouse?”
She shrugs. “Because they told me it wasn’t safe to wait in the car this time.” She adds, “Apparently they were correct.”
“You usually wait in the car?” I ask.
“Yep. Every time until today.”
“What exactly do you do for the Bratva, little one?”
“Why do you call me that?”
“Answer me, or so help me I will put you over my knee and spank your arse red.”
She swallows. Besides the irritation in her eyes, I swear there is something else. Interest? Desire?
She looks down at the granite, as if it’s the most interesting fucking rock she’s ever seen. “Mostly respond to emails and take messages. And set up dinner reservations. Sometimes arrange employee travel.”
I’m halfway through draining the pasta when I freeze. Her eyes meet mine. “You’re a fucking secretary?”
“Pretty much, yes. Technically I’m his personal assistant. But why split hairs.”
I search her eyes for the lie, but I don’t find it. She’s telling the truth. She is Dimitri Popov’s personal assistant. Why the fuck does he even have one? For reservations? I look at her beautiful face again. Then it dawns on me. She’s more than his assistant. Irrational rage starts to cloud my mind.
“And how long have you been fucking him?”
The malevolence burning from her eyes is shocking. She swallows, and then takes several deep breaths, as if she needs to say something very important and can’t risk being misunderstood.
“I. Am. Not. Fucking. Him.”
Pure fury comes off of her in waves. She hates him. That’s interesting.
“I’m sorry, that was rude of me.” If any of my men were here to see me apologize to her, they would drop over dead from shock. I finish draining the pasta and toss it with the sauce. I split it on two plates and take her empty beer bottle, trading it for a glass of wine. Her stomach makes another loud protest. I hand her the fork. We eat silently. She’s delicately putting the pasta in her mouth so as to not aggravate her split lip. I wonder if it’s worse than I thought it was. When she’s finished, she takes a sip of her wine and closes her eyes.
“That was very good. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I stand and hold my hand out to her.
She looks at me with skepticism.
“I need to look at your lip. The first aid kit and better lighting are both in the bathroom.”
Her tongue pokes out, runs along the split in her lip. She grimaces and then nods. She doesn’t take my hand but does follow me. We’re headed to the opposite side of the apartment from the guest room. To my room. She pauses briefly at the doorway, her bright eyes evaluating me again, before she proceeds. I turn on all the bathroom lights and pat the counter. She sits. Stepping in front of her, I gently tilt her face toward the light. I tease apart the split in her lip with my fingers and she flinches.
“You need a couple of stitches.”
