The lobby is empty at this hour, just the night security guard who nods as I pass. The revolving doors spit me out onto the sidewalk, and the evening air hits my face, cool and sharp. I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart.
That's when I see it.
The black car parked across the street, engine idling. The same car that's been there every evening, I realize with sickening clarity. The same driver behind the wheel, his face shadowed but his attention fixed directly on me.
My first instinct is to run, but I force myself to walk normally toward the subway entrance two blocks away. My heels click against the pavement, each step measured and deliberate, even though my heart is hammering against my ribs.
The car pulls away from the curb.
It follows me slowly, keeping pace, making no attempt to hide its presence. I walk faster, my breath coming in short gasps, my mind racing. Is this Roman's doing? Is he having me followed? Or is this something else, someone else, connected to those documents I shouldn't have seen?
I pass the subway entrance and keep walking, too afraid to descend into the underground where I'd be trapped. The car continues following, its headlights painting my shadow long and distorted on the sidewalk ahead.
A deli appears on my right, its windows bright with fluorescent light, and I duck inside without thinking. The bell above the door chimes cheerfully, completely at odds with the panic flooding my system. I grab a basket and pretend to shop, my hands shaking as I reach for items I don't need.
Through the window, I watch the black car idle at the curb.
The driver doesn't get out. Doesn't approach. Just sits there, waiting, his presence a threat that doesn't need words.
I'm trapped.
10
ROMAN
The security report sits on my desk, mocking me with its mundane details. Eva Markova went straight home after work. Ate dinner with her roommate. Spent an hour on her laptop reviewing budget spreadsheets. Made no calls. Contacted no one suspicious. The supposed call from Yakovlev's people? A fucking telemarketer trying to sell her an extended car warranty. I'll have to have a talk with my security. That kind of mistake is not acceptable.
I drain my vodka and pour another, the burn doing nothing to ease the tension coiling in my chest. The connection to MediFund Solutions is real. The predatory lending scheme that trapped her mother is definitely part of Abram's network. But Eva has no knowledge of it. She's not a plant. She's not a spy. She's exactly what she appears to be, a desperate young woman drowning in debt, trying to survive.
Relief floods through me, unfamiliar and unsettling. For two weeks, I've been fighting my attraction to her, suppressing the desire that ignites every time she walks into my office, because I thought she might be my enemy. Now that barrier is gone, andshe's infinitely more dangerous to me than if she'd been Abram's weapon.
I want her. God help me, I want her with a hunger that's becoming impossible to control.
The skyline emerges from shadows as I stand at my windows. I should feel victorious. Eva is innocent. The threat I imagined doesn't exist. But all I feel is the weight of what comes next. Now that I know she's not my enemy, what the fuck do I do with this need burning through my veins?
My phone buzzes. Lev, checking in before his morning run. I ignore it. I need to think, to plan, to figure out how to handle Eva Markova now that the main reason I had to keep my distance has evaporated.
The elevator chimes at 7:30. I don't need to look to know it's her. I feel Eva's presence like a physical touch, the way I always do. Through the glass wall, I watch her settle at her desk, and immediately, I know something is wrong.
Her professional armor is intact. Light blue dress, structured blazer, and her hair in that usual bun. What would her hair look like loose and around her shoulders? But there's fear in the set of her shoulders, tension in the way she moves. When she disappears toward the kitchen to make my coffee, I notice her hands are shaking.
She enters my office minutes later, and the trembling is worse. The coffee cup rattles slightly against the saucer as she sets it on my desk, careful as always not to let our fingers touch. But I see the fear in her brown eyes, the way her pulse flutters at her throat.
She leaves as quietly as she entered and goes back to work. I try to do the same myself, but I can’t stop thinking about my assistant. She’s innocent. She’s not working for Yakovlev. She’s not a plant to help take down my business.
She’s just a girl, though. Barely over the age to legally drink. She hasn’t yet really experienced life, not compared to what I’ve seen in my forty-one years. She’s too young for me, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting her.
The rest of the day goes by in agonizing slowness. I should be relieved Eva turned out to be exactly what she’s portraying, but I’m not. My mind and body keep warring with each other. My mind says that now I know she’s not a spy, I can get on with my work and finding proof against Abram. But my body argues, saying that now I know she’s not a Yakovlev plant, I can get on with the business of seducing her.
Finally, the sun sets and employees leave for the night. Except Eva. She is still at her desk, tapping a pencil against as stack of papers as she studies her computer screen. She bites her plump bottom lip and the sight sends a jolt of awareness along my nerves.
I give in to the impulse I’ve been avoiding all day and call her into my office.
"Miss Markova." I keep my voice neutral, controlled. "Sit."
She hesitates, then settles into the chair across from my desk. Her spine is straight, her hands folded in her lap, but I see her press her thumbnail into her index finger. That nervous tell she thinks she's hidden.
"What's wrong?" I ask directly.
