I'm already digging into my purse where I keep a spare tie because I learned very early that being Slava Romanov's PR agent means being prepared for every possible bodily fluid.
"Last week it was Judge Morrison's wife in his office. The week before, it was some Instagram model on a Tribeca rooftop. Do you have a voyeurism fetish I should know about? Do you like getting caught? Because if so, I need to factor that into future schedules."
That's when I realize I'm rambling. Filling the silence with words because the alternative is obsessing about what I just imagined.
When I turn back, he's watching me intently. On anyone else, the slight quirk of his lips is a smile.
But on him in this moment, it almost looks like a threat.
"Do you always keep spare ties on hand for me, Ms. Creminelli?"
"I keep spare everything, Mr. Romanov." I hold up the charcoal gray replacement. "Emergency button kit. Backup phones. Two changes of clothes in the car. Breath mints, protein bars, and a file of risqué but ultimately harmless pictures to throw the vultures at the gossip rags off your trail. You hired me to make you look like a respectable businessman. That means being ready for every conceivable catastrophe."
Including you, I almost say.
He shrugs out of the ruined tie and drops it on the floor with the casual disregard of someone who has never once cleaned up his own messes. Because that's what people like me are for.
Cleaning up.
Covering up.
Making the monster presentable.
"Well?" He's looking at me expectantly, arms loose at his sides, shirt collar open. "You're the expert."
It takes me a humiliating three seconds to understand what he wants.
"You want me to?—"
"Isn’t that why I hired you? Unless you prefer that I walk into the gallery looking like an inconceivable catastrophe."
You unimaginable bastard.
My fingers tighten around the silk. This is fine. This is professional. I've put ties on him before—in the car, backstage at press conferences, and once in a hospital waiting room after a "business associate" had an unfortunate accident.
This isn't intimate. It's not supposed to mean anything.
Except that two minutes ago, someone else was on her knees in front of him, and now he wants me to stand where she stood, looking up at him the same way she did.
He wants my hands on his collar, and his cologne filling my lungs with every breath.
Does he know that I had that fantasy just now? Can he read minds?
Don't be ridiculous, Bella. He's not a vampire, even if he's as good-looking as one. He's just a rich asshole and a murderer.
I could say no. Ishouldsay no. I should hand him the tie and walk away and spend the rest of the night not thinking about the way his throat moves when he swallows.
Instead, I step closer.
The air thickens. I can smell him now—something clean and soapy beneath the cologne. It makes me want to lean in and inhale until I'm drunk on it. His body radiates heat like a furnace, and I'm suddenly aware of how small this hallway is, how close we're standing, and how the top of my head barely reaches his chin, even in my heels.
Focus.
I lift the tie and loop it around his neck. My fingers brush his collar, and his skin is fever-warm beneath the fabric. This close, I can see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. The individual lashes framing those impossible gray eyes. The slight lapse in his breathing that might be my imagination or might be?—
"The schedule," he interrupts my spiraling thoughts. "For tonight."
Right. Yes. Work. That's what we're doing.
