“Definitely.”
“And?”
“I’ll let you know when it’s too late to turn back.”
His laugh filled the car, low and genuine. “Something tells me, Kara,” he whispered, leaning close enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath against my throat, “it already is.”
I smiled, looking out the window as the Bentley curved along the marina road, the city unfolding in kaleidoscopic light. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was too late.
But then again, sometimes danger was exactly the point.
The elevator rose in perfect silence, its glass walls reflecting the sprawl of Dubai below, light against light, like the city had forgotten what darkness was. My reflection shimmered beside his, ghostly over the skyline. Roman stood with one hand in his pocket, the other holding a tumbler of scotch he hadn’t touched. He watched the city like it belonged to him.
Maybe it did.
He was the kind of man who seemed to claim space without effort, almost like gravity bent slightly toward him.
Dark hair, cut close at the sides but longer on top, swept back with a sense of careless effort that was probably intentional.
Eyes the color of glacier melt—pale blue with the faintest ring of silver—cool, intelligent, and far too observant. His jaw was clean, strong, the kind that somehow spoke of both discipline and indulgence. The first few buttons of his shirt were undone, just enough to reveal the top of his chest, a hint of dark chest hairrising above the fabric and the edge of a gold chain that wasn’t for show.
He looked like money and sin all wrapped into one. I knew enough about him to know that he wasn’t the kind of man who chased. Instead, he waited for the world to come to him.
Just like I did.
When the elevator doors opened, the air changed. It was cooler, scented faintly with cedar and a darker aroma, almost like campfire smoke. The penthouse spread before us, a cathedral of glass and shadow. The view stole the breath from my lungs. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the marina far below, where yachts glimmered like pearls in the dark water. The city stretched beyond, glittering and pulsing with life and obscene wealth.
Inside, the space was sleek, masculine, all charcoal and marble. Everything was expensive without trying too hard. A black grand piano stood near the window, its surface gleaming like spilled ink. Art lined the walls, some modern and others abstract, the kind of pieces that cost six figures just to sit there on the wall and look unbothered.
“A minimalist,” I said finally, turning in a slow circle.
“I like things uncomplicated,” he replied, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it across the back of a chair. “Too many details ruin things.”
I smiled faintly. “So says the man with a Picasso hanging above his fireplace.”
“Exceptions prove the rule.”
He put down his glass from the car, poured two fresh drinks from a crystal decanter on a coffee table, and handed me one. His fingers brushed mine, just enough to draw another pulse of heat through me. I took a sip, letting the scotch burn its way down. It was smooth, peaty, and most likely incredibly expensive.
“GlenDronach?” I guessed.
His mouth curved. “You know your whiskey.”
“I know my vices.”
He studied me for a long moment. “And which one am I?”
“I’ll let you know when I decide whether you’re worth the hangover.”
That earned me a laugh, quiet and genuine. He leaned against the glass wall, the city burning beneath him. The soft lighting turned his eyes into shards of ice, bright and unreadable.
“You’re different from the usual company I keep,” he said.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It was.” He paused. “Most people want something from me.”
“And you think I don’t?”
