Just as the door opens, Ransome pulls me against him, hard.
“What are you—?” I start to ask when I am suddenly blinded by camera flashes.
“Mr. Rozanov!”
“Ransome! A photo! Ransome!”
“What is happening?” I whisper as he keeps walking. He’s also still holding me against him as he moves through the camera clad crowd.
“It’s called paparazzi,dorogoya. Get used to it.”
We make it down the stairs and Ransome’s driver pulls up in his black Mercedes. But just before we reach the door, another guy, this one with a microphone, steps in front of us.
“Ransome! Who’s your friend?” he asks and again, Ransome pulls me into him. “Or is she more?”
I expect Ransome to shove him out of the way, to move us around the creep and rip the car door open. But instead, he wraps his palm around the side of my neck, his thumb pressed firmly to my jaw, forcing my chin to tip up.
Then, without notice, his mouth covers mine. His tongue runs along my bottom lip, his jaw working my mouth open.
Oh. My. God.
He's kissing me.
My boss is kissing me.
My body goes boneless before I even realize what I'm doing. I part my lips just slightly—not that Ransome needed the input—and suddenly, I can feel his tongue on mine.
It's hot. It's sinful. It's just classy enough not to ruin his reputation, but hell, if it hasn't just ruinedme. The kiss goes deeper for a moment and then, just as quickly, he pulls away. The driver, who must have gotten out of the car while Ransome was sucking the soul from me, opens the door, and Ransome guides me into the back seat before sliding in next to me.
“Who was that?” I ask when my breath finally returns to my lungs.
“A reporter for TMZ. We have an image to keep if my family and the Chadovichs are going to believe us.”
“Won’t this make them mad?” I ask.
“Furious.”
I don’t ask any more questions. The ride back to his penthouse is completely silent. It isn’t until he walks me upstairs, unlocks the door, and waits for me to go inside that he breathes a word at all.
“Here,” he says, handing me my phone.
“Wait,” I say as panic rises in my chest again. “I have to stay here?”
But Ransome doesn’t answer the question. He simply punches a code into the security system. “Don’t misuse it. I will know.”
With that, he leaves. The door latches and locks. And I nearly collapse from the whirlwind of it all.
17
AMARA
I am a zombie as I make my way to the kitchen in the morning. I reach in the cabinet for my favorite mug, a turquoise coffee cup I found at HomeGoods that has a hand-painted peacock on the side. But when my hand comes in contact with smooth matte mug after smooth matte mug, it hits me.
These are not my cups. This is not my house.
I peel my drowsy eyes open enough that I can see the color of said cookie-cutter mugs. And sure enough…
All black.
