"She asked if you were my wife."
My stomach flips and I have no idea why. Being married to Luka Popovich sounds like an absolute nightmare. Maybe even worse than being stuck in a snowy hellhole without a room.
"And what did you say?"
"You witnessed the entire thing. I barely got a word out before she baptized me." Apparently, glancing to see what woman she was referring to was stalling. Which, logically, in her mind, made me guilty."
Heat climbs up my neck.
"That’s not what I meant to do," I say. "I was just—"
"What?" he cut in. "Marking your territory?"
My spine stiffens. As if I would ever lay claim to a man like Luka. A cocky hockey player who will never settle down. No way, not my type. "I don’t care who you go home with."
"Clearly. Considering your timing is impeccable. Just a coincidence then?"
I glance at his soaked sweater. "You were about to leave with her, weren’t you?"
He stands, stepping closer.
Wet fabric clings to his chest. The scent of whiskey and cologne wrapped around me.
"Yes. And you couldn’t let that happen, could you?" he asks quietly.
I lift my chin. "You’re supposed to be in Seattle smoothing things over with the committee. Not vacationing across the world picking up women in a bar."
"Is that what that was?" he asks softly. "Professional concern?" The space between us shrinks as he steps closer. "I told you back in Seattle to go home."
"And I told you," I say, matching his volume, "ignoring a problem doesn’t make it disappear."
His eyes narrow. "Did my agent tell you to fly out here?"
"Yes," I say.
"And you did it."
"Well, I’m not a mirage."
"I’d say that’s been made evidently clear by the Moscow Mule I’m currently dripping in."
I don’t point out the irony in the drink, or how fitting it is of the man wearing it. Both that he’s from Moscow and that he’s as stubborn as a mule. They really ought to just rename the drink Luka Popovich. But now’s not the best time to point that out.
Instead, we stand there, face to face. Both of us are calculating our next moves.
"Why can’t you let this go?" he asks.
There’s no way I’m telling him that if he doesn’t cooperate, I’ll lose my job.
"I have my reasons. Maybe you're just the kind of charity case I need for some good karma."
He smirks. "I know what Randolph paid the last two PR agents that tried to get me to cooperate, and my guess… he’s paying you at least double."
"Triple," I counter.
Finally, a real smirk pulls at his lips. "Good to know Randolph still thinks I’m worth the investment. So, you lied. This is about the money… not good karma."
"Maybe it’s both." I lift a brow and stand a little taller on instinct, as if posture can make up for the fact that without heels, he’s got almost a foot on me.
