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He’s not the only one shoving notes in flowers—there’s a card in the bouquet from my parents, and it’s addressed to Miss Daphne Hamish.
I really need to find that lighter.
When the door to my office opens once more, I’m ready to chuck the card at the intruder like some ninja throwing star. I almost do it, too—except…
“Pasha? What are you doing here?”
He’s staring at the yellow roses. “Who the fuck did these come from?” His eyes narrow. “Conrad.”
The way he practically growls the name sends good shivers up my spine. “Don’t worry,” I laugh as I toss the letter and card into the garbage bin by my feet, “they’re going straight to the dumpster.”
Pasha grunts. “He shouldn’t be sending you any. At all.”
I sigh and heft a vase to set on the side table by the door. “My bosses, in their infinite wisdom, thought it would be a great idea to not only host yet another showing for him, but for me to curate it. As much as I’m not loving this arrangement, he wouldn’t be the first client to arrive with a gift.”
“He was here?”
“Came and left. It was a very, very short meeting.” I don’t know why I do it—maybe just to placate the beast clearly riding below the surface—but I reach out and press a hand to Pasha’s chest. “I’m really glad you’re here.”
Is it a surprise to both of us that I genuinely mean it?
Pasha clears his throat and seems to shake off whatever residual disgruntlement still tries to cling to him. “Yeah, well… Ivan had a family emergency. I’ll be driving you home after work myself. I came to let you know.”
“I don’t get off for a few more hours.”
He checks his watch. “You’re due for a lunch break, aren’t you?”
“Er, yeah. I guess I am.”
“Well, then. Lunch it is.”
Biting back my blush, I grab my coat and purse and start to head for the door. Pasha moves in the opposite direction, though. I frown in confusion as he scoops up the other floral arrangement and dunks it mercilessly in the trash can.
“There,” he says in satisfaction. “Much better now.”
He plucks my coat from my arms and holds it open for me to slip into. His scent wraps around me warmer than the coat, and I feel myself respond in ways that probably have a lot to do with our little shower last night.
But as his eyes rake over me, that wriggle of heat turns into more of a frigid shiver. It’s a shift in his expression, a tightening in his frown that makes me suddenly think, I fucked up.
“Daphne.”
Something in his voice is a warning. Like I’m in trouble.
Like maybe, just maybe, I should have taken someone’s advice.
I turn my head to smile up at him. Maybe if I bat my lashes and charm him with my coy sweetness, he’ll let it slide. “Yes, Pasha?”
The hand that was pressing my back toward the door slides up to tangle at the nape of my neck. Then he pulls, hard, forcing me to tip my head back and expose my neck to him.
Pasha leans in so close, I can practically taste the fury on his tongue, and snarls, “Where is my mark?”
41
PASHA
“Where. Is. My. Mark?” I ask her again.
Technically, I do know where it is—the makeup is evident this close.
