The drive takes fifteen minutes. My apartment is in a decent neighborhood near the university, close enough to my old consulting clients, far enough from the Kozlov compound to pretend I have my own life. I’ve rented it since I returned fromLondon for Alexei’s wedding three weeks ago. The plan was to stay for the ceremony and then fly back to Christie’s. That plan died somewhere between the gallery attack and the car bombing.
Boris’ two men clear the building first, checking stairwells and exits before giving us the all-clear. Tony keeps his hand near his weapon as we climb to the third floor. I watch him from behind, noting the way he checks every corner before we pass it. Dmitri does the same thing. So does Alexei. It’s the mark of men who expect violence.
“You’re making me paranoid,” I complain as I unlock my door.
“Good. Paranoid people stay alive.”
The apartment looks how I left it. A half-unpacked suitcase on the bed, work materials scattered across the desk, and tea bags beside the kettle. I never bothered making it feel like home because I didn’t plan to stay.
Tony sweeps the rooms anyway, checking windows and closets like he expects someone to jump out. When he’s satisfied that we’re alone, he positions himself by the window with a clear view of the street.
“I’ll be quick,” I promise as I pull a duffel from the closet.
“Take your time. We’re not on a schedule.”
I start grabbing essentials—clothes, toiletries, my laptop, and the authentication references I can’t work without. The space feels impersonal even after three weeks. Just another temporary stop in a life that never stays still.
“You never unpacked,” Tony observes from his post.
I toss underwear into the bag and reply, “I was supposed to go back to London. Staying wasn’t part of the plan.”
I move to the dresser for more clothes, and a stack of papers slides off the top. Documents from my Christie’s work, notes on pieces I was authenticating before everything went to hell. They scatter across the floor in a mess of my handwriting and photographs.
“Shit.” I kneel to gather them, trying to organize months of work that’s now hopelessly jumbled.
Tony abandons his post at the window and crouches beside me. “Let me help.”
“It’s fine. I’ve got it.”
He reaches for the same paper I’m grabbing, and our hands collide.
The touch is brief. Accidental. And it hits like a match.
Three days of living together in that safehouse, watching him walk around shirtless in the mornings, and sitting too close on the couch has all been building to this.
We freeze.
I look up at him. He’s close enough that I can see the darker ring around his blue irises, and the way his pupils enlarge as he looks at me.
My heart hammers against my ribs. This is a terrible idea. He’s hiding things. I’m supposed to be figuring out if he’s a threat. Dmitri would lose his mind if he knew I was considering…
Tony’s hand comes up to graze my jaw, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone. Then his mouth is on mine, and thinking becomes impossible.
The kiss is hungry and desperate, like he’s been holding back for weeks and finally snapped. I kiss him back with equal hunger, fisting my hands in his shirt to pull him closer.
He stands, bringing me with him, and backs me toward the wall. My shoulders hit plaster, and he presses against me, one hand still cradling my face while the other finds my hip. His bulky length pins me in place. I can feel how much he wants this.
“Is this what you want?” His mouth brushes mine. “I want to hear it.”
“I want you.”
His hand slides under my shirt, fingers splaying over bare skin, and I gasp. He takes advantage, stroking his tongue into my mouth as I arch into him.
I yank at his shirt, and he breaks away long enough to pull it over his head. Scars crisscross his torso—some old and faded, others newer. Each one a story I shouldn’t want to know. Then his mouth is back on my neck, trailing down to my collarbone, and my head tips back against the wall.
“Bedroom,” I manage.
“Where?”
