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“Hello,” I breathe politely. Katryna is there, and she scoffs, but one woman, a young brunette, smiles brightly at me.
“Hi!” Her excited face flinches to respect when she looks at Callan. “Mr Scott,” she says.
“Girls, aren’t you supposed to be somewhere else?” His voice is detached, deep and lacking remorse. Callan sidesteps them, taking me with him.
I feel for the young girl, so I turn, walking backwards.
“I love your shoes. Louboutins, right?” I ask.
Her face splits into a wide smile.
“Yes, last season,” she gushes.
“You look incredible,” I tell her. Her cheeks flame, but her eyes shine happily at me.
Callan hooks an arm around my waist and presses his lips into my hair.
“Come on,” he delivers, suppressing a grin when my eyes bug at him. He is enjoying this far too much. Another group of women are loitering, and Callan tsks at them. “You’re here to work. My personal life is none of your business,” he barks, and they jump and scatter off. Then why the show? Is he enjoying pretending to be a couple?
I slap his chest.
“You big meanie.”
We reach the door, and Stalin holds it open for us as we leave and walk to Callan’s car.
“Are you telling me,” we both slide in the car, and Callans turns to me, “you’re not looking forward to me having my way with you in the shower, then a private meal in one of London’s top restaurants?”
I check my nails and try not to smirk.
“I never said that.”
“Good. Those women won’t say a word about you, and they will lie through their teeth to protect themselves—plausible deniability,” he imparts, sensing my anxiety at being here at Skyn. He squeezes my knee.
“Did we really have to flaunt that under their noses?” I feel sick at taunting them with our false relationship when Callan no doubt views them as an investment.
“If I’d left without you, Katryna would have caused more fuss.”
And with that, we are flying through London.
Chapter Sixteen
Three hours later, Callan and I are sky high and out of harm’s way. He hasn’t bothered to shave today, and the dark shadow to his jaw makes him look even more devilsome. He’s left his suit jacket back at his and gone for a more casual look, kitted out in all black. Something about this look has me swooning like a teen meeting her crush for the first time.
“How does a man like you come to places like this and stay so untraceable?” I cut into my fish and wait for his reply before I put the fork in my mouth.
“Reputation.” He winks. And a false name, I recall. The owner greeted us personally through the staff entrance, shaking a ‘Mr Stalin’s’ hand. Initially, I was shocked, but I hid it with a polite smile as the owner looked at me and inclined his head.
“You mean Stalin’s reputation,” I murmur, finishing up the last of my meal and taking a sip of tonic.
Callan shrugs.
“Here, I’m Stalin. In some places, I’m Mr Scott. In others, I’m who I want to be.”
“Will you ever tell me what it is you do?” In other words, will you ever trust me? I have a hoard of secrets myself that I have kept hidden beneath an ocean of fear—with his reputation and lifestyle, he is sure to have his own.
“Why, you’re leaving soon. There is no need to share such information with you.”
“What about my situation? We’ve barely spoken about it?” I ask. I want to know what steps he is taking—how this will all play out.
