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DMITRI
“I’ve never met the girl, but she’s impressing me.” Rogan’s periwinkle eyes are magnified to alien proportions by the huge, blue-rimmed glasses she’s wearing. I feel like she can see into my thoughts.
“How exactly?” I ask, despite “talking about Wren” falling at the very bottom of my to-do list.
“She kept things running smoothly. And considering your hellaciously stupid schedule, that’s saying a lot.”
This is not what I need right now. I don’t need to hear about all the shit that Wren does well. I need to hear about all the stuff she does badly. I need a long and comprehensive list of all her sins, her flaws, her most annoying qualities.
Her infuriating stubbornness, for one.
Her complete inability to listen to orders, for another.
And while we’re at it, there’s the way she chews on her bottom lip. The way her hair curls on its way down to her breasts, like the locks are every bit as desperate for a touch of her silky skin as I am. Her eyes and her dimples and the curve of her throat where it?—
Goddammit. I’ve completely lost the plot here.
As per fucking usual.
Rogan hasn’t noticed, though. “I like the way she’s rearranged the filing cabinet in here, too. And?—”
“If you’re looking for charter members of your Wren Turner Fan Club, look elsewhere,” I snap, glowering at the brief I’ve been trying to read over Rogan’s gushing.
Her eyes pinch together and her glasses slip down on the bridge of her nose. “My goodness, someone’s crabby today. Have you had lunch?”
“Rogan.”
“Or do you need another cup of coffee?” she continues blithely. “I can spike it for you, if you prefer. Whiskey, bourbon, horse tranquilizers—you name it, you got it. Whatever you need to take the edge off.”
“What I need is for you to stop talking about Wren.”
Rogan pushes her glasses back up and flashes a cheeky grin. “What are you more annoyed about: your assistant getting knocked up with your baby or the fact that you didn’t get to do the ‘knocking up’ part yourself?”
Fucking hell. Now, I almost wish Wren was back so I don’t have to deal with Rogan’s scathing, way-too-observant honesty.
“Make yourself useful and get me some coffee.”
“Fine. But I know you’re trying to get rid of me,” she remarks as she heads for the door.
“Nothing gets past you,” I drawl back sarcastically.
She opens the door and pauses on the threshold to look back over her shoulder. “Oh, heads up: your brother is heading over with a head full of steam. Looks like he’s got something important to say.” She turns her back on me but I can see the apple of her cheek as she smiles. “Hello, Aleksandr. I’m getting Dmitri coffee. Would you like some as well?”
“Nix the coffee, Ro. We’ve got bigger fish to fry.” He flies through the door but makes sure to shut it behind him. “Look alive, big brother. I’ve got news for you.”
I arch a brow and set my papers down. “Good news?”
“I’d say this qualifies,” he confirms with a self-satisfied smile. “I turned that sad excuse for a fertility clinic upside down looking for any clues that might tell us who the attacker was.”
“And…?”
“The so called ‘nurse’ that attacked your woman?—”
“She’s not ‘my woman!’” I snarl before I can stop myself.
Aleks holds up two hands and recoils in alarm. In his defense, my anger was a bit disproportionate. I blame Rogan. “Alright, Jesus, you’re touchy. Fine—the fucker that attacked your in-no-way-emotionally-attached-and-definitely-not-‘yours’ baby mother isn’t actually a registered nurse at the fertility clinic. He was signed in on the day of the attack about twenty minutes before he walked into Wren’s examination room.”
“Signed in by whom? And why?”
