“Shit.” I’m not even sure if I say it out loud or not, but I find myself looking around before doing the only obviously practical thing to do in a situation where someone is snooping through their boss’s personal office.
I hide in the closet.
The doors are maple and slatted. One of thoseI-can-see-out-but-he-can’t-see-insort of doors. I hold my breath listening as his shoes tap slowly through the house.
Foyer.
Living room.
Kitchen.
Pause.
Why did he pause?
SHIT.
My heart drops through a trap door into my stomach. I put away that glass, right? I cleaned it and wiped down the counter and the sink? There’s no way he’d see a stray droplet of water somewhere and know, right?
Maybe he would. But maybe… maybe he won’t know it was me. Maybe he will think it was something he left out and he forgot to put it away. Although, who am I fucking kidding? Ransome forgets no detail ever. So what if he knew it was me? Would he care?
The steps continue into the kitchen. I hear a cabinet open. A glass touches the counter. Highball? And then the distinct, squeaky pop of a waxed cork. Whiskey, I’m sure. Expensive.
A moment later—more footsteps. He’s headed down the hallway. Will he go to his room? Will he undress again?Will he shower?!
My fucking God—if I can hear that man shower, I will be dead. Certified deceased. Put me in a coffin and feed me to the worms, because life after that will not be worth living.
But the footsteps stop. Right next to the office.
Shit.
The door was ajar when I came in. I shift my body ever so slightly to the side just to see if I left it that way and I almost let out a breath when I see that it is. But then… it shoves open. Slowly, intentionally, curiously.
Ransome is now in sight in his full glory. He’s taken off his tie but he’s still in his button-down shirt. He looks around, checking the desk casually, drink in hand. He looks at the burner phone and I hold my breath. Picks it up.
Then he sets it back down. Looks around again and slowly heads for the door. Relief floods through my body…
… until he stops in the doorway.
His shoulders square off and his body is tense. Then slowly, his head turns and he looks back. With his eyes narrowed into slits, he mumbles, “Ty, dolzhno byt’, shutish…”
I have no idea what he said, but I’m pretty damn sure it translates toI’m toast.
Ransome slowly strides back to his desk. He looks around and I swear to God he looks right at me. My heart is pounding so hard in my ears I am surprised it doesn’t blow my cover. But he looks away, takes a sip of his whiskey, and then shakes his head.
“Plokhaya devochka.”
I make a mental note to invest in a Russian-to-English translator. I knew he could speak Russian—I mean, his last name gives that away. But he doesn’t usually speak this much of it.
Suddenly, he sets his glass down. Then he undoes his belt.
What… is… he… doing?!
Ransome pulls the belt loose and then unclasps the button and drags down his zipper. But he doesn’t fully drop trou, even though I swear that’s where I thought this was going.
No. What he does next is even more provocative. Even more unbelievable. And it’s enough to make my pants wet.
He reaches beneath the elastic band of his boxer briefs…
