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I hear him sigh again. But he nods and signals for his men to let us through, and they part without hesitation.
Against everything in my self-preserving instincts, I find myself enjoying his arm around me as we wind our way toward the exit. The way he helps me dodge a chair here, a table corner there. He’s not a happy camper, but he’s still showing a great deal of care and consideration for me.
My heart squeezes.
I know better than to want more with him. He’s too dangerous, too unpredictable.
That doesn’t stop my heart from wishing.
Pasha walks me to my car. His men trail at a respectful distance. When he sees the champagne roses peeking through the passenger window, he stops and his face darkens at once. “I didn’t know you were seeing someone.”
“I’m not seeing anyone. For all you know, they could be from work.”
When I open the door to toss my handbag in, he snatches the card from the vase and narrows his eyes. “Conrad.” His stifled glare shifts to me. “You’re going back to him?”
“Fuck no.” I snatch the card from his fingers and rip it into tiny shreds. “He wishes.”
“Then explain why they aren’t in the trash.”
I roll my eyes. “Because they didn’t do anything wrong. And they happen to be some of my favorite kinds of flowers. So excuse me for wanting to enjoy a little beauty in my life—hey!”
Pasha grabs the vase from my car without asking.
“Give them back!” I yelp. “I don’t want to throw them out!”
“I’ll take good care of them,” he spits. “You can come see them whenever you want.”
“Pasha—”
“No.” He steadies his gaze on me again, but instead of anger or impatience, it’s a very targeted possessiveness that hits straight at my core. “If you want flowers, tell me. I’ll send you flowers. I’ll deliver them myself. But no way in hell is another man going to fill your home with some pathetic attempt to woo you away from me.”
I should slap him.
I should run.
I shouldn’t feel the way I suddenly do, all… hot and fluttery, wanting to climb him like a tree and beg him to make me his good girl.
I mask the shake of my head with a scoff. “Fine. Whatever. Asshole.” I fumble with my keys inside my purse, yank them out, and stomp over to the driver’s side. Hopefully, he’ll interpret the tremor in my fingers as anger, frustration, grief. Something other than aching arousal.
We don’t bid each other goodnight. Surprisingly, Pasha doesn’t even attempt to shoulder his way into my car. I honestly half-expect him to, either to wrestle the steering wheel out of my hands or… ahem… “wrestle” me in the back seat.
Instead, he simply stands off to the side and watches me drive away. No wave, no shouted second thought.
But I think, in the dim light of the security lamp, I see him smirk.
11
PASHA
“Your coffee, Mr. Chekhov.”
The words are purred, but they sound like nails dragging down a chalkboard to me. I only glance up at Paris to take the mug from her hands. She seems to misinterpret that as an invitation to sidle around my desk, far closer to me than she ought to dare.
“Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Chekhov?”
You can fuck off, spits the voice in my head.
“Remember what the word ‘professionalism’ means, and then show me you understand the definition.” I set the mug aside and snap my gaze back to the paperwork in front of me.
