"Yeah?" He edged forward, he closed the gap till I was pinned, and I swear I saw my own freaked-out reflection in his pupils. "Rules around here don't cover 'snapping pics with a fake camera.'"
Done for. He knew.
I gaped, but nothing came out. His whole vibe—that grown-man aura—had me choking.
His eyes skimmed my quivering lips, and then they locked back on mine. "You're shaking."
Understatement. I was vibrating down to my bones. Every nerve yelled run, but some weird pull kept me stuck.
"Interesting." Out of nowhere, his fingers hooked under my chin.
My brain blanked.
His touch scorched, the rough pad grazed my skin—not too firm, but enough to hold me still. He tilted my face up, and he forced me to meet those eyes.
Hazel depths sized me up.
It was not sleazy—worse. He was appraising, he was pondering, and he was figuring out how to handle me. His gaze traced my eyes, my nose, and it lingered on my mouth.
My lips went desert-dry; I licked them on autopilot.
His eyes darkened.
"I-I'm a reporter," I forced out, and my voice wobbled but stayed steady-ish. "Just doing my job. Caught you by accident."
"By accident." He echoed it, and a chuckle threaded through. "How old?"
"Twenty-one."
"Twenty-one." His thumb brushed my chin, slow and too damn intimate—every nerve lit up like a live wire. "Still a kid."
"I'm not a kid!" Guts kicked in from somewhere; I shot back.
He arched a brow, and my pushback amused him. "Oh yeah? You know what happens when you sneak pics of strangers in a spot like this?"
He drawled "happens" low, like a secret in my ear. The word hung heavy, and it was laced with some flirty edge of threat.
My face flamed, heat crawled from my neck to my ears, and I felt my pulse thundering. I felt blood rushing hot—shit, something deep in my gut twisted with heat.
This was all wrong.
I should have been scared, I should have been sorry, and I should have been scheming an exit. But my body betrayed me—my heart raced, my breaths ragged, my knees buckled, and yeah, a weird warmth pooled low in my belly.
"I can delete the pics..." My whisper barely made it out.
"Delete?" He let go of my chin, and he fished a card from his slacks pocket. "That'd be a shame."
I blinked. "Huh?"
"I said," he pressed it into my palm, his fingers lingered a beat too long—scalding me till I almost yanked back—"send them to me."
I glanced down. Plain black cardstock held just a name and number—no firm, nothing fancy.
Alexander Volkov.
Russian?
"I..."
