“Not long.” His voice is calm as he gestures for me to sit, like he owns this place instead of me.
I settle back into my chair and don’t break eye contact.
The description Ivan gave me was dead on. Tall, lean, hard lines to his frame. His hair brushes his shoulders, unkempt in that way that young women find sexy and mothers can’t wait to attack with scissors. He’s got green eyes so pale I wonder for a second if he’s wearing contacts.
The hostess interrupts our staring contest. “Can I get you gentlemen anything to drink?”
“Macallan 25,” Misha says without looking at her. “Neat.”
“Great. And the usual for you, Mr. Gubarev?”
“No.” I study Misha for a moment. “Bring a bottle of Macallan for both of us.”
“Right away, sir.” She smiles and leaves with a bow.
Misha’s eyes follow her out. I can see the old me in him—eyeing women, planning his conquest for the night. They say my future business partner is never seen with the same woman on his arm twice, and I believe it.
His reputation precedes him in other fields as well. His past, for one. They say he used to be special forces back in Russia, and that’s where he got his weapons dealing connections. Rumors cling to him, each darker than the last.
That suits me just fine. I don’t need a saint—I need someone ruthless and reliable. If half the stories are true, Misha Lykov is both.
“Heard a lot about you,” I say. “Most sounded like bullshit, though. Hard to know what sticks.”
He tilts his head with a faint smirk. “Right back at you. They say you tear your enemies apart with your bare hands.”
“Do they, now?”
His gaze turns a shade colder. “They also say your wife ran out on you.”
I curl my fist under the table. He’s testing me—I get that. If I lose my shit over such a lukewarm jab, he’ll know I can’t handle his business.
And yet the mention of Sima is enough to make my control fray.
“People say a lot of things,” I reply through gritted teeth.
“That they do.”
Our bottle arrives. The hostess gracefully pours us a glass each. Her eyes keep darting to Misha’s face.
“Thanks,milaya,”he purrs at her.
She blushes a pretty shade of pink.
When she’s out of earshot, I turn to Misha. “Should I give you two the room?”
“Not at all.” He takes a swig of his Macallan. “The night is young.”
“So is my staff.” Though that hostess was probably around Sima’s age. “I suppose Mrs. Lykov isn’t the jealous type.”
“Mrs. Lykov isn’t any type at all,” he retorts. “Because she doesn’t exist. I ride alone.”
“Smart.” I take a swig, too. “No ugly marital rumors chasing you, then.”
We stay like that for a moment. He watches me; I watch him. Both of us are here to find out what the other is made of. Every word we trade, no matter how seemingly innocent, is a test.
Finally, Misha leans back. “I believe you have a pitch for me.”
“You don’t beat around the bush.”
