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“I was an egotistical bastard long before the house.”
She claps two sarcastic hands to her face. “It’s self-aware, too!” Then, gesturing vaguely at me, she adds, “Were you also an egotistical bastard before all this?”
I follow her gesture in confusion. I’m wearing my usual: charcoal Cesare Attolini suit, black Hermes tie, Tom Ford loafers as dark as my hair. The watch on my wrist reflects the rising moon. “Before all of what?”
“Don’t act like you don’t know you’re well-dressed and good-looking.”
“Don’t act like I’d be any different if I wasn’t.”
“My God, do you have a smooth retort for everything? It’s infuriating. I feel like you’re reading off a movie script.”
I shift in place as the breeze wafts her scent to my nose. A sweet, salty sweat and vanilla perfume. My cock stirs. “What happens next in this movie then?”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “We just established that you’re the one with the script. Why don’t you tell me?”
“Dinner,” I answer immediately. My response takes even me by surprise. I have to run a hand through my hair and bring myself back under control before I add, “You’re going to come sit at my table and explain to me what the fuck you were doing on my property.”
I watch intently as the girl swallows again. Her throat bobs nervously and she toys with a charm bracelet on her wrist. I don’t think she’s even aware she’s doing it. I glance down to see a link with the letter “Z” embossed in rose gold as she twiddles it back and forth.
“I don’t think so,” she says at last. “It’s nice of you to offer, though.”
That pisses me off. People don’t tell me no. Not anymore. “It wasn’t an offer,narushitel.Let’s go. You’re coming with me.”
I start to turn away, but she stays stubbornly rooted in place. I pivot back in exasperation.
“My mom taught me a long time ago not to just go off into strange places with strange people,” she explains.
“And mine told me to shoot trespassers on sight. Whose mother should we listen to?”
Even in the moonlight, her face goes pale. I feel a twinge of something I don’t feel often: guilt. She looks terrified suddenly and I don’t blame her—my mother did tell me that, actually, and it was my first instinct when my security team informed me that someone had passed over the southwestern gate.
But shooting her would be a waste of a bullet. She’s no killer and she doesn’t know a damn thing about who I am or what kind of organization I lead. She’s just a shy, scared woman—albeit an irritatingly attractive one—and so interrogating her over dinner sounds like punishment enough.
Sighing, I point at her. “You just tore your thigh open on a rusty nail. You’re favoring your other leg, so I know it hurt worse than you’re willing to admit. I also know that there isn’t a fucking chance you have an extra tetanus shot lying next to the half-eaten salad and the moldy loaf of bread that are no doubt rotting in your refrigerator right now. I happen to have medical supplies aplenty. So do yourself a favor: stop being stubborn, come join me for dinner, and I’ll give you the medical care you need. Otherwise, you’re going to wake up with lockjaw, trespassing charges, and an ugly scar that’ll last you the rest of your life.”
She still doesn’t look convinced. So I stick out my hand. She flinches away before she realizes what I’m doing.
“I’m Uri Bugrov,” I tell her. “No longer a stranger.”
Delicately, she places her tiny hand in mine. “Alyssa Walsh.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Alyssa. Now, are you going to walk to my house or am I going to have to carry you?”
3
ALYSSA
I opt to walk.
One, because I don’t want him to think I want him to carry me.
And two, because if he so much as tries, I’m gonna blush so bad that astronauts flying through space will be able to see my red cheeks. Uri will feel me radiating nuclear-level embarrassed heat and will assume the obvious: that I’m completely and utterly infatuated with him.
Which I’m most definitely not. Apart from having a healthy appreciation for his rock-hard physique and symmetrical bone structure, that is. I mean, physical attraction is only skin-deep, right? Practically meaningless.
I mean, sure, I have been known to ogle him in the past from the reading nook in my bedroom. But I ogle Henry Cavill, too. Doesn’t mean I’m in love with him.
It’s a long, silent trek across the lawn back to the mansion. He leads me inside without any sense of pride or even the slightest hint that he knows he lives in the fucking Taj Mahal of L.A. I do my best not to gawk as we pass by double-height floor-to-ceiling windows, dark oil paintings, and black leather couches big enough to hold everyone I’ve ever known.
