That dangerous, treacherous heat returns, uninvited and unforgivable, to a widow who still dreams of her husband’s final breath.
His jaw is sharply cut beneath the dark-silver scruff of his beard, his lips full but perpetually unsmiling.
Dark eyes, deep-set and intense, watch me with unreadable scrutiny. A charcoal suit hugs his frame, his broad shoulders tapering to a lean waist.
We’ve never talked about that night, the night Maxim died.
He steps toward the desk, every movement deliberate. “There’s a problem.”
“Problem?”
He picks up a document and glances at it casually. “Your filing. Certain financial disclosures. There’s an error. A serious one.”
“I’m sorry?” I manage, my voice steady despite the accusation.
His gaze pins me in place. “You listed the March transfer incorrectly. Sloppy. I expected better from you, Teresa.”
His voice slides over my name like silk, edged with menace.
He’s baiting me.
Testing me.
“With all due respect, Mr. Angeloff,” I reply, steel threading through my voice, “there is no mistake. The March transfer was filed exactly as required. I checked it myself. Twice.”
He arches an eyebrow, arrogance radiating off of him. “Yet my accountants flagged it.”
“They were mistaken,” I say evenly. I open the slim folder I brought upstairs and calmly slide a printout across his polished desk. “Here. Your accountants overlooked the subsequent amendment. It’s been noted, filed, and signed—three weeks ago. Your signature.”
He doesn't move. Doesn't reach for the document. Just stares at me with those unreadable dark eyes, letting the silence stretch until my heartbeat fills my ears.
Then he circles the desk slowly, each step deliberate. He picks up the document, standing close enough that I catch the scent of his cologne—bergamot and something darker, like smoke.
His jaw tightens. I don’t allow my expression to falter, even though my heart races at the dangerous narrowing of his eyes. He lifts the document, skims over it briefly, then sets it down with barely a sound.
“Very well,” he concedes, the words clearly not sitting easily on his tongue. “I see you’re meticulous, as always.”
“Well...,” I say, daring a small, professional smile. “That’s why you hired me.”
A flicker in his eyes—anger, amusement, something else I can't name. He steps closer, forcing me to tilt my head up to hold his gaze.
“Few people speak to me the way you do.”
“I’m just doing my job.”
“Of course you are” he replies. “But it’s interesting. Rare. Most people wouldn’t dream of it.”
Silence stretches.
Heat simmers beneath my skin.
Finally, he speaks again, businesslike and clipped. “I need the conference room at the St. Regis in Baltimore for Thursday morning. Seven a.m.”
I frown slightly. “Thursday. As in two days from now?”
“Correct. And flights. Myself, Sokol, and the heads of finance. Arrange a private jet, secure the suite.”
I stare at him a beat too long. He can’t possibly be serious. “Baltimore,” I repeat. “Thursday morning.”
