“You tracked me all by yourself,” I said, setting down the glass. “I’m flattered.”
“I enjoy the hunt,” he replied.
“And what happens when the hunt’s over?”
He stepped closer, hands casually resting in his pants pockets, gaze fixed on me like I was an equation he intended to solve. “That depends on what I find.”
“Maybe you should’ve brought backup,” I said softly.
“I wanted to handle you all by myself.” His eyes moved over me once, toes to top, and my skin prickled with heat.
“You still talk like you’re winning.”
He tilted his head. “You still pretend you don’t want to lose.”
“Careful, Lev,” I said. “You might find out you don’t know me half as well as you think you do.”
He smiled then, slow and certain. “That’s why I came alone.”
The air between us felt electric, the line between threat and some darker thing tightening with every breath.
I was moving before I’d fully decided to. Not toward the go-bag, not toward the balcony. I went for the side table, where adecorative letter opener rested—silver, heavy, and plenty sharp enough to cut. My fingers closed around it just as his hand clamped over my wrist.
His strength was staggering. Almost inhuman.
“Let go,” I demanded calmly, my voice carrying with it the weight of a threat.
“Or what?” he whispered, his other hand brushing my hip, his thumb skimming the edge of my short silk robe.
I twisted, but he countered fast, pinning my arm behind my back in a movement so fluid and efficient it was almost beautiful. The letter opener clattered to the floor. He pressed me against the wall, his body a warm, solid weight against my back, his mouth close to my ear.
“You always were stubborn,” he murmured. “Did you really think you could steal from my family and just… walk away?”
“I didn’t steal anything,” I said, though the lie was thin in the sudden heat between us.
“Liar,” he whispered.
I drove my elbow back, aiming for his ribs. He caught it easily, his hand closing around my arm, his grip like iron. He spun me around, forcing me to face him, his hands gripping my upper arms, pinning me against the cool marble. His eyes were dark, fathomless, and they held a challenge rooted in our shared past.
“Fight me,” he commanded. “I want you to.”
So, I did. I thrashed, I struggled, my hands pushing against his chest, my nails scraping at the fine fabric of his suit. It was useless though. He was a wall of muscle and iron will, and I wasa storm against a mountain. He was too strong, too skilled, his movements powerful as he neutralized my struggles with a calm, terrifying ease.
He caught both my wrists in one of his large hands, lifting them over my head and pinning them to the wall. His other hand went to the tie of my robe, tugging it open. The silk whispered against my skin, parting easily, exposing me to the cool, conditioned air and to his roving gaze.
An appreciative growl rumbled from him, a sound of pure, unadulterated male approval. His eyes, dark and intense, roamed over my body, a slow, possessive sweep that made my skin flush. He wasn’t just looking at me; he was claiming me. He was cataloging every curve, every hollow, every flaw, and every strength.
“Go to hell,” I spat, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
He chuckled, a quiet, triumphant sound that vibrated through his chest and into mine. “Oh, I’ll send you there, princess. But first, you’re going to admit you want this.”
I shook my head, a silent, frantic denial, but my body was a traitor. A deep, insistent sizzle had started between my legs, a wet heat that was already slicking my thighs. The fantasy I’d indulged in the bath, the one I’d tried to bury, came roaring back to life, vivid and entirely too consuming.
This was it.
This was the fantasy, except now it was becoming reality.
He shifted his grip, his free hand trailing down my side, his fingers tracing the curve of my hip, then my thigh. He was so close, his body a looming presence that was both a threatand an anchor. His scent—clean with an undercurrent of pure masculinity, wild and dangerous—filled my senses, a heady, intoxicating perfume of threatening promise.
