Katerina Volkov is nothing like I expected.
Based on Irina Petrov’s ice-queen demeanor, I assumed all Russian mafia princesses would be cut from the same frigid cloth. But Katerina is warm, animated, with a laugh that actually sounds genuine.
Color me surprised.
She greets Vince with a kiss on both cheeks, then surprises me by extending the same courtesy.
“Ms. St. Clair!” she crows happily. “A pleasure to meet Vince’s right hand.”
I smile, instantly wrong-footed by her friendliness. “Likewise, Ms. Volkov.”
“Please, call me Kat. Everyone does.”
Vince looks as surprised as I feel by her casual demeanor. We’re seated at a prime table, Katerina and Vince facing each other, me at a slightly awkward third point in the triangle. Close enough to hear everything, not quite close enough to be fully part of the conversation.
Rowan the wallflower, as per usual.
“Vince tells me you’re new to his team,” Katerina says to me as the waiter pours wine. “How are you finding it?”
“It’s challenging,” I admit. “But rewarding.”
“I imagine so.” She smiles knowingly. “Vince has always been demanding.”
The way she says it implies history. I glance at Vince, who meets my gaze with unreadable eyes.
“You two know each other well?” I ask, unable to help myself.
“Since childhood,” Katerina answers. “Our families have been… associated… for generations.”
“Business associates,” Vince clarifies, a warning note in his voice.
Katerina laughs. “Is that what we’re calling it now? How diplomatic of you, Vincent.”
The waiter returns to take our orders. While Vince and Katerina discuss the menu, I find myself studying her more closely. She’s beautiful in a natural way—bright blond hair, striking bone structure, intelligent eyes.
But there’s something else about her. A sadness that lingers behind her smile.
Vince orders for all of us, not bothering to ask what I want. The feminist in me loathes it. The cavewoman in me howls in delight.
As we wait for our first course, Katerina turns her attention back to me. “So, Rowan, tell me about yourself. Where did you study?”
“Oh, just upstate,” I reply, feeling suddenly inadequate next to her Harvard pedigree. “Marketing and Design.”
“Impressive!” Surprisingly, she sounds sincere. “Creativity combined with strategy. No wonder Vince snatched you up.”
Vince shifts in his seat, his hand going to his inside pocket as he adjusts his position.
My heart stops. The Polaroid. Is he going to find it now?
But his hand moves away without retrieving anything, and I exhale slowly.
“Rowan has been an unexpected asset,” Vince says, his eyes locked on me. “Full of surprises.”
The double meaning isn’t lost on me.
Or on Katerina, it seems.
“I’m sure she is,” Kat murmurs, her gaze shifting between us thoughtfully. “The best ones always are.”
Our appetizers arrive—steak for Vince, scallops for Katerina, calamari for me. I pick at my food, anxiety growing with each passing minute.
When will he find the photo? What will happen when he does?
Katerina and Vince fall into conversation about mutual acquaintances. I listen attentively, noting how much more comfortable Vince seems with her than he did with Irina.
They have chemistry, these two. Not romantic necessarily, but a natural rapport built on years of shared history. I feel a pang of something that might be jealousy, might be regret for what I’ve done.
“Excuse me,” Vince says after our main courses are cleared away. “I need to take this call.”
He pulls out his phone and steps away from the table, leaving me alone with Katerina.
She watches him walk away, then turns to me with a direct gaze. “So. How long have you been in love with him?”
I choke on my wine. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t bother denying it.” Her smile is sympathetic. “It’s written all over your face whenever you look at him.”
“I—I don’t—” I stammer, mortified.
“It’s okay.” She reaches across the table to pat my hand. “Your secret is safe with me.”
I take a deep breath. “We’re just colleagues.”
“Of course.” She sits back, still smiling. “Though I’m curious why he brought his ‘just colleague’ to what’s supposed to be a date to determine his future wife.” When I don’t answer, she continues, “Unless, of course, there’s something else going on.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I lie.
“I think you do.” Katerina takes a sip of her wine. “Vincent’s father is pushing him into a marriage of convenience. An alliance, not a love match. And Vincent is fighting it the only way he knows how.”
“By bringing his assistant along?”
“By showing his father he’s already made his choice.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. “You’re mistaken.”
“Am I?” She glances toward where Vince stands, phone to his ear. “Watch what happens when he comes back. Watch how his eyes find you first, not me.”
I want to protest further, but Vince is already returning to the table.
And just as Katerina predicted, his eyes seek me out before settling on her.
“Sorry about that,” he says, sliding back into his seat. “Business emergency.”
“It’s always business with you Akopovs,” Katerina teases. “Some things never change.”
As they resume their conversation, I notice Vince shifting in his seat again, his hand going once more to his inside pocket.
This time, his fingers make contact with something.
He pauses mid-sentence. A frown creases his brow. My pulse races as he pulls out the small envelope, glancing at it with confusion.
“What’s this?” he murmurs under his breath.
“Something wrong?” Katerina asks.
“No,” Vince says, quickly returning the envelope to his pocket without opening it. “Just a note I forgot about.”
But his eyes find mine across the table, questioning. Suspicious.
I smile innocently and take a sip of my wine, even as anxiety floods my system.
Oh, God… What have I done?
Katerina watches this exchange with knowing eyes. “Perhaps you should check that note,” she suggests. “It might be important.”
“It can wait,” Vince replies, but his hand stays near his pocket like he can’t stand to be separated from it.
The tension at the table rises to unbearable levels. I can’t believe what I’ve done. Can’t believe I thought this was a good idea.
“I need to use the restroom,” I announce, desperate for a moment to collect myself.
“Of course,” Katerina says. “Down the hall to the left.”
I practically flee the table, feeling both their gazes on my back as I weave through the restaurant. In the restroom, I brace myself against the sink and stare at my reflection in the mirror.
“What the hell were you thinking?” I whisper to myself.
The woman in the mirror—with her blazing red dress and matching lips—looks like a stranger. A reckless, impulsive stranger who thought it would be fun to play with fire.
Oh, how wrong she was.
I splash some cold water on my wrists and neck, trying to calm down. I need to go back out there. I need to face whatever happens next.
When I return to the table, I find Vince alone, his expression thunderous.
“Where’s Katerina?” I ask, sliding back into my seat.
“She stepped outside to take a call.” His voice is dangerously quiet. “Which gives us a moment to discuss this.”
He pulls out the envelope and places it on the table between us.
“Care to explain?” he asks.
“It looks like an envelope to me,” I reply, aiming for nonchalance but missing by a mile.
“Don’t play games, Rowan. Not about this.”
“Isn’t that exactly what we’ve been doing? Playing games?” I meet his gaze defiantly. “You leave me notes about thinking of me when you come. You touch me under tables while on dates with other women. You tell me to wear certain colors, certain dresses, like I’m your doll to dress up.”
“So this is what? Revenge?”
“No.” I swallow hard. “It’s me playing by your rules.”
He opens the envelope slowly, sliding the Polaroid just far enough out to see what it is, then quickly pushes it back in before anyone can see. His eyes darken to midnight as they lift to meet mine.
“We will discuss this later,” he says, his voice tight with controlled fury.
Or is it desire?
“Of course, Mr. Akopov.” I smile sweetly. “Whatever you say.”
Katerina returns before he can respond, sliding gracefully back into her seat. “Sorry about that. Family business.” She glances between us, sensing the charged atmosphere. “Did I miss anything interesting?”
“Not at all,” Vince says smoothly, though his eyes remain fixed on me. “We were just discussing tomorrow’s schedule.”
“How fascinating,” Katerina drawls, clearly not buying it. “Well, I hate to cut this short, but I’m afraid I need to leave early. My uncle requires my presence at a family matter.”
I can tell from Vince’s expression that he doesn’t believe her excuse any more than he believes my innocent act.
“Of course,” he says, signaling for the check. “I understand completely.”
“I’m sure you do.” Katerina stands, gathering her purse. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Rowan. I hope we’ll see each other again sometime.”
“Likewise,” I respond automatically.
Vince rises to escort her out. Before they leave, Katerina leans in close to him, saying something I can’t hear.
Whatever it is makes his jaw tighten.
As they walk away, I sit alone at the table, a storm of emotions raging inside me. Satisfaction that my plan worked—the date is clearly over, cut short by whatever Katerina sensed between Vince and me.
Anxiety about what will happen when Vince returns.
And shame, creeping in around the edges, that I stooped to such petty tactics.
I’m better than this.
Or at least, I thought I was.
Vince returns a few minutes later, his expression unreadable. “Car’s outside,” he says curtly. “Let’s go.”
I follow him silently, feeling smaller with each step. The vengeful satisfaction I felt earlier has curdled into shame. I’m not this person—this manipulative, jealous woman playing games with nude Polaroids.
Except apparently, I am.
In the car, Vince sits across from me. Neither of us speaks as we pull away from the curb, the tension between us thick enough to choke on.
Finally, unable to bear the silence any longer, I speak. “I’m sorry.”
“For what, exactly?” His voice is cold. “For slipping a nude photo into my pocket? For deliberately sabotaging my dinner? Or simply for getting caught doing it?”
“All of it.” I stare down at my hands. “I don’t know what I was thinking. It was childish. Petty.”
“Yes.” He studies me for a long moment. “It was also effective.”
I look up, surprised. “What?”
“Katerina told me she’s withdrawing from consideration as my potential bride.” A small, rueful smile plays at his lips. “She said, and I quote, ‘I won’t compete with the woman you actually want.’”
My cheeks burn hot. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Yes, you did.” He pulls out the envelope, turning it over in his hands. “The question is, what do we do now?”
I have no answer for him. No clever retort. No strategy.
“I… I don’t know.”
He smolders at me. “Then let’s see if we can’t find some inspiration.”
My lungs fill with air so thick it’s like inhaling smoke. I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but watch as Vincent Akopov—crime lord, future pakhan, and my personal sexual tormentor—slides the Polaroid from its envelope.
He examines my naked body. The seconds stretch between us, elastic and poisonous. My thighs are pressed together hard enough to crack bone.
I’m a mess. I’m an utter fucking mess.
“Rowan…” he growls finally, voice dropped to that register that turns my insides molten. My name alone is almost enough to make me combust. “Do you even understand what you’re doing?”
I can’t speak. Can only shake my head.
“You think this is about sex.” He leans forward, reducing the space between us to nothing. “It’s not.”
I swallow. “Then what is it about?”
“Control.” He reaches out, his fingertips grazing my knee where the slit in my dress reveals bare skin. “Power.” His hand slides higher, pushing the silk fabric with it. “Ownership.”
I should stop him. Actually, that’s one of a million things I should do. Also on that list are “slap him” and “scream” and “throw myself out of the car if that’s what it takes to get myself out of this disaster in the making.”
Instead, I part my thighs.
Just slightly.
Just enough.
“If that’s true,” I croak, amazed at how steady my voice sounds when I’m disintegrating inside, “then why are you the one who seems out of control right now?”
His jaw tightens, eyes narrowing to blue slits. “Because you’re not supposed to exist.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means…” He slides his hand higher, fingers dancing along my inner thigh. “… that you were supposed to be an easily dismissed diversion. Something simple to fill the time while I handled my father’s marriage demands.”
Heat blooms where he touches me.
“But you’re not simple at all, are you, Rowan St. Clair?” His fingers reach the edge of my underwear, and he traces the seam with deliberate slowness. “You’re a fucking complication.”
“I can stop,” I gasp, though we both know it’s a lie. “Being a complication.”
“No.” He presses against the thin fabric, finding the exact spot that makes me whimper. “I don’t think you can.”
My head falls back against the seat as pleasure spirals through me. This is insanity. We’re in the back of his car, driver separated only by a privacy partition that may or may not be soundproof.
“Look at me,” he commands.
I force my eyes open to find him watching me with an intensity that should terrify me. Maybe it does. Maybe terror and desire are just opposite sides of the same razor.
Maybe they both draw blood just the same.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, fingers stroking faster now, “and I will.”
The words won’t come. Can’t come. Because I’ve wanted this—wanted him—for five years. Because I’m already soaking through the silk of my underwear. Because I’m greedy and stupid and lost in the impossible reality of Vincent Akopov touching me like he’s starving for it.
“Please,” I whisper instead.
His other hand slides around my neck, not squeezing, just holding. Possessing. “Please what?”
“Don’t stop.”
His smile is all predator. “Good girl.”
Then he’s pushing my underwear aside, sliding a finger into me, and I’m not prepared for the shocking intimacy of it. My body clenches around him, desperate and hungry.
“Fuck,” he growls. “You’re tight.”
I bite my lip to keep from moaning as he adds a second finger, stretching me in the most delicious way. My hips rise to meet his hand, shameless in my need.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, his own breath coming faster now. “Take what you want.”
I’m so close already, embarrassingly close, when—
Lights flash through the window. A horn blares. Vince’s head snaps up, his body tensing.
“What the—”
The impact comes before he can finish the thought.
Metal screams against metal as our car spins wildly. My body flies forward, then slams back. Glass shatters. Vince’s arm shoots out protectively across my chest as we’re thrown sideways.
The world tilts.
Turns upside down.
Goes black.
