“Everything about you is provoking.” His thumb brushes my exposed collarbone, and I absolutely do not shiver. “The clothes. The closet. That smart mouth of yours.”
“Funny, I don’t remember asking for your opinion.” I try to step back, but the pants tangle around my feet. His arm shoots out, steadying me before I can fall.
Great. Perfect. Just what I needed—his hands on my waist, his chest against mine, that cedar-and-danger scent making my head spin.
“Let go.”
“Why?” His breath fans across my cheek. “So you can fall on your ass in my twelve-hundred-dollar joggers?”
“Twelve-hundred—?” I sputter. “Who pays that much for glorified pajamas?”
“Says the woman who used a five-hundred-dollar tie as a belt.”
“It’s called fashion, asshole. Look it up.” I manage to untangle my feet and break away, heading for the elevator. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go check on my son.”
“Elijah’s with Dmitry in the garden.”
The tie slips from my waist as I yank it free. “You left my son with the Siberian Slaughterer?”
His eyes track the silk sliding through my fingers. “Planning something?”
“Maybe.” The pants slip lower without their makeshift belt. “Want to find out?”
I snap the tie taut between my hands. His lips curve—and then I’m swinging. The silk whistles through the air, but he’s already moving. His fingers catch the tie, using my momentum to pull me forward.
The joggers hit the floor, leaving me rocking the no-pants revolution in his hoodie like it’s a high-fashion statement.
I release one end, letting it slide through his grip as I duck under his arm.
The move brings me behind him.Perfect. I jump, wrapping my arm around his neck—but he’s ready. His hands grip my thighs, and the world spins. My back slams into the wall, knocking the breath from my lungs.
“Amateur.” His body presses me harder against the wall, his hand slides up the side of my neck, fingers curling just enough to remind me who’s in control.
“Get off me.” The words come out breathless. Angry. Definitely angry, not—
His teeth graze my neck. “Make me.”
I buck against him, trying to break free. Bad idea. The friction sends heat pooling low in my stomach, and his grip on my neck tightens enough to bruise.
“I know you’re angry, Clara Caldwell.” His lips brush my thundering pulse. “So angry at the person who killed Jake Caldwell.”
My vision blurs.
Everything goes red.
“Do not speakhisname.” The words rip from my throat. Grinding down my teeth, I try to headbutt him, but his hand tangles in my hair, holding me still. “Fuck. You.”
“Such fire,krasotka.” He drags his mouth up to my ear, and I hate how my body arches into him. Hate how his heat bleeds through the thin shirt, making my skin burn.
“But I’m not the killer you’re looking for…”
I blink rapidly, trying to clear my mind, to make sense of his words.
Wait. What?
What the fuck did he just say?
14
