“That can be arranged.” I nod to Maksim. “Wait here.”
Clara’s door opens before she can protest. I grab her wrist, tugging her out onto the sidewalk. She stumbles, bare feet hitting concrete, and crashes against my chest.
“Boss,” Maksim calls through the window, grinning like the asshole he is. “Sure you don’t want that hotel room first?”
“Drive,” I growl, but Clara’s already trying to wrench free. I tighten my grip, steering her toward the entrance. “Stop fighting me, or I’ll carry you.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
I bend down, reaching for her legs. She jumps back.
“Fine! Jesus. I’ll walk.” She yanks at the hem of the hoodie. “But I’m not buying anything.”
“No?” I guide her through the doors, into the cool air conditioning. “Then I guess you’re keeping my clothes. Though they might get a bit… drafty.”
Her elbow finds my ribs. Hard.
I laugh, steering her toward Saks. “Come on,krasotka. Let’s find you something.” Then it slips out, softer, almost under my breath, before I can catch it, “Something that covers those legs before I have to kill someone for looking.”
Clara freezes mid-step. “What… what the fuck did you say?”
“Nothing.” I push her forward, my hand spanning her lower back. But I catch her reflection in the store window—the slight parting of her lips, the flush creeping up her neck.
Blyat. I really am losing my mind.
18
Clara
The marble floors of Canal Place freeze my bare feet as I walk beside Leonid, his oversized hoodie barely covering what it needs to.
Security guards do double-takes. A woman clutches her Gucci purse tighter. And here I am, looking like I just escaped someone’s basement.
Which, technically, I did.
“Walk faster.” Leonid’s hand presses against my back.
“Easy for you to say,tyrant. Try prancing around on this marble ice rink without shoes. My nipples could cut glass right now.” I dig my heels in, literally, making him adjust his stride. “Oh wait, you wouldn’t know what that’s like, would you? Being all cozy in your thousand-dollar shoes while dragging half-naked women around like some discount Christian Grey—”
“Are you done?”
“I’m just getting started, actually. Would you like to hear about—?” The words die in my throat. Two women in matching Louboutins have stopped dead in their tracks, staring at Leonid like he’s an all-you-can-eat buffet. One nudges the other, phone already raised.
“Oh, my God, isn’t that Henry Cavill? The Superman guy?”
“No, you idiot, that’s Chris Evans!”
“I thought Chris Evans was shorter—”
My body moves before my brain catches up. I step directly into their camera frame, spreading my arms wide.
“Ladies, hate to break it to you, but this is just a really tall Ukrainian accountant with a face symmetry problem.”
Leonid’s fingers dig into my hip. “Ukrainian?”
“Sorry, did I offend your Russian sensibilities?” I bat my eyelashes at him. “Should I tell them you’re actually Jason Momoa’s less attractive cousin instead?”
“Clara.”
