"Photos until seven-fifteen." I wrap the tie around itself and let muscle memory take over. "Then cocktails with the donors until eight. Councilman Peters wants ten minutes alone with you to discuss the waterfront development. Say yes to whatever he asks, we can walk it back later. Your keynote is at eight-thirty,and I've changed the speech to include three more references to community investment because city council members get hard for buzzwords. After that?—"
"How hard?"
"I'm not being paid to think about how hard city councilmen can get."
"Just me, then?"
My hand fumbles. A creep of flush rushes up my cheeks, and my mouth goes dry. Goddamn this man!
"Unfortunately, yes." I sigh and look up at him, jutting out my jaw defiantly the way my brother Luca taught me to do when we were kids. "Just you."
His eyes suddenly narrow as he looks at me, and a brief shadow of recognition passes through his eyes. A shiver rushes down my spine. But this time, dread follows after the heat. An unspoken understanding flutters between us.
Like both of us just saw something neither of us was supposed to see.
I quickly avert my eyes and return to his tie as if it's the most interesting thing in the world.
A finger finds my chin, and liquid fire pours into my veins from the point of contact. One small motion, and Slava tips my face up until I'm looking into his eyes again.
My hand freezes and my pulse races from the heat as he searches my eyes, the shadow of recognition still clinging to the edge of his gaze. But what’s he looking for?
Seconds stretch until they feel like hours, and my heart races until it hammers at my throat. Then, the shadow fades from his gaze, and he pulls his finger back.
What the hell was that?
"What else did you change in my speech?"
"Nothing else." The knot is almost done. I just need to adjust it, center it, smooth down his collar, and then I can step away and breathe again.
"And after the keynote?"
"Photos with the councilmen. Then you're free to resume your regularly scheduled depravity."
I slide the knot into place, straighten his collar, and make the mistake of running a hand down his chest to smooth his shirt as he gives ahmph.The sound vibrates through his hard chest, and it rumbles through my fingertips like an electric current until it lodges deep in my belly.
And I can't help but look up again into those winter gray eyes—not quite silver, not quite storm cloud, but something in between that makes me think of frozen lakes and things buried beneath the ice. His lips are slightly parted. There's a tiny smear of lipstick at the corner of his mouth that Vanessa must have left behind.
I want to wipe it away and leave my own mark in its place.
What is wrong with me?
This man killed Luca. Put a bullet in him—or ordered someone to, which amounts to the same thing— and left my six-year-old nephew Anthony without a father and me without my best friend.
I have spent five years getting myself to this position as his PR agent, and making myself indispensable to him. All so that one day, I can dismantle everything he’s built, brick by brick.
But somewhere along the way, between nursing my revenge, looking for the exact opening to make my move, and obsessing over his every little detail to make myself indispensable to him, I’ve come to develop an unhealthy obsession about him.
The kind of obsession that manifests itself as unwanted fantasies that I can’t stop having every night when I collapse into bed.
The same kind of fantasies that leave me shamefully soaked and hungry for him to satisfy a craving I’m not supposed to have.
I force my expression back into professional neutrality, and turn toward the gallery door.
His hand closes around my wrist to stop me.
The touch is light—barely there—but it feels like a band of fire and stops me as effectively as a chain. His fingers are warm against my pulse point, and I know he can feel the way my heart is betraying every carefully constructed wall I've built.
"Miss Creminelli."
