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“It’s biology, sweetheart.” My smirk widens as we walk. “Unless you want to make a detour into the men’s room and take care of it for me, there’s not a lot I can do about it.”
I’m only half serious.
Unless, of course, she agrees.
Then I’m completely serious.
“You wish.” She snorts, but I catch the blush rushing up her neck before she looks away. “Fine. Just stay behind me then.”
I toss her a wink. “Whatever you say, rook.”
True to her word, Angel approaches the receptionist’s desk first. “Hello, we have an appointment with Harris—” And true to my word, I crowd in behind her, shoving my dick right against her ass. “Wrr-renn,” she finishes with a broken stutter. “Harris Wrenn.” Whipping her head around, she glares at me.
“Your names, please?”
For all her earlier confidence, Angel falters. I can see the panic set in as she grips the edge of the receptionist’s desk, her knuckles turning as white as her face. We practiced this the whole drive from Chula Vista, but theory and reality are two very different beasts.
Stepping in front of her, I take control. “Dominic McCallum and Alexandra Romanov.”
The receptionist’s eyes grow wide. I’m not surprised when she peers around me to get a second look at Angel. Having Alexandra Romanov casually show up at a lawyer’s office is like having Big Foot walk into a shoe store.
“Y-yes, of course. One moment, please.” Her hand fumbles for her desk phone, and to be honest, I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a cell phone in the other.
Which is fine. There is no such thing as bad publicity.
Unless the publicity comes from me.
Then you’re fucked.
Ten minutes and a lot of pacing later, Angel and I sit in Harris Wrenn’s office. It’s not surprising that the Romanov estate is handled by a partner in the firm instead of being handed off to some junior executive. There are million-dollar accounts and then there’s the Romanovs. An estate with trust funds that could buy and sell dozens of small countries and still piss on the change.
Existing made them famous, but death made them legends.
“There’s a protocol we must follow, Mr. McCallum,” Wrenn says, straightening his red tie. “I’s that must be dotted. T’s that must be crossed. Boxes that must be checked. I’m sure you understand with your,” he clears his throat, “reputation, the estate will need irrefutable proof.”
Beside me, Angel sucks in a sharp breath while I just stare at that damn red tie. Power tie, men like him call it. Bullshit. It tells me he’s trying to make up for what he’s lacking below the belt. Dazzle them with a bright tie to distract from a limp dick.
Here’s a tip for you: I’ve never worn a tie in my life.
“So, what is protocol?” Angel asks, clearing her throat. “What’s the next step?”
“Normally, we’d take things slow, Miss Smith.” Angel flinches at hearing her real name.
“Miss Romanov,” I remind him.
He smirks. “Not yet. As I was saying, normally, we’d keep your identity quiet, not only for your protection but for the privacy of the estate. However, since Mr. McCallum has already taken matters into his own hands”—he turns to me, his mouth clenching so hard I wouldn’t be surprised if his face cracks—“we’re forced to expedite the process.”
“Well, what are we waiting for?” I ask, throwing my arms out wide. “Expedite away.”
Wrenn doesn’t say anything as he rolls his chair back, dragging one of his desk drawers along with it. While his attention is diverted, I steal a quick glance at Angel. She still looks like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar, and if she doesn’t snap out of it soon, she’s going to blow this all to hell.
Keeping my hand low, I tap her leg. Her eyes immediately snap to mine, and I silently mouth the words, “Jade Saxton.”
She furrows her eyebrows.
“Be Jade Saxton,” I mouth again. “Play the role.” I hope what I’m saying gets through to her because if she doesn’t start acting like an heiress, we’re fifty shades of fucked.
Wrenn turns back around and drops what looks to be a giant Ziploc on his desk. “I’ll need a DNA sample.”
