Chapter 17 Aleksei #2
She doesn’t notice. She’s scrolling, narrating softly. “Marina Leston. Twenty-nine. Runs a literacy initiative for inner-city schools. Sits on the board of three charities. Featured in Vogue twice. And…” she hesitates, tapping her lip with her finger, “…also rumored to be very kind.”
Kind. A woman known for kindness.
Nothing like me.
I manage a grunt. “Fine.”
But she keeps looking at the screen, frowning slightly. “She seems… good for you.”
Good for me? She has no idea.
“No one is ‘good’ for me, Zatanna.”
Her eyes lift, soft and steady on mine—not frightened, not intimidated. Curious. “You don’t know that.”
My throat tightens.
She really doesn’t understand who she’s talking to.
Her gaze lowers again to the tablet. “I did my best. I hope it helps.”
Something about the way she says it—quiet, sincere—makes my jaw clench.
“You did well,” I say.
Her face lights up. Like those three words mean something.
She looks away quickly, as if embarrassed by her own reaction, and it hits me in the chest with surprising force.
I don’t deserve that look. I don’t deserve anything from her.
But fuck if I don’t want it anyway.
She clears her throat. “I should… get back to work.”
“Zatanna.”
She stops in the doorway, turning slightly. Her eyes meet mine.
I shouldn’t say anything. I shouldn’t want anything. I say it anyway.
“If I’m late to this dinner,” I murmur, “I expect you to remind me.”
Her breath hitches the faintest bit. She nods once. “I will.”
And she leaves—quiet, quick, like she’s afraid to stay too long yet can’t quite force herself to run. The door closes behind her.
Silence settles in the boardroom again.
I drag a hand over my face. I should cancel tonight. I should fire her. I should do anything other than let this spiral further.
But I know it the moment she walks out:
I’m going to that dinner.
And I’m going to spend every second of it thinking about the woman who set it up.
By the time she comes back to my office that evening, I’ve almost convinced myself not to go.
Almost.
The city is turning gold outside the windows, the skyline slipping toward dusk, and I’m standing in front of my bar cart pretending the whiskey in my glass is why my hand feels too warm.
It isn’t.
A knock comes at the door.
“Come in.”
Zatanna steps inside with the tablet hugged to her chest again, a printed reservation in her hand. She’s changed nothing about herself since this morning and somehow still looks like trouble. Soft hair, flushed cheeks, those dark eyes that never seem to know what to do when they land on me.
“I just wanted to confirm,” she says, all business, though I can hear the effort behind it. “Your reservation is for eight at Le Verdin. Marina Leston already confirmed. She’ll be there on time.”
I look at her for a long second.
She mistakes my silence.
“You are going, right?” she asks. “Because if I made all these arrangements and you cancel, that’s honestly a little insulting.”
I almost smile. “A little?”
“Yes,” she says, chin lifting. “A lot, actually.”
I set the glass down.
She’s trying very hard to sound annoyed and not at all like the thought of me taking another woman to dinner bothers her.
It’s almost cute.
“I’m going,” I say.
Relief flickers across her face before she schools it away. “Good.”
She steps forward and places the reservation card on my desk. “Le Verdin has a private dining room, excellent security, and a discreet entrance. You said you needed someone well-connected. She’s all of that.”
I glance at the card, then back at her. “No.”
Her brows pull together. “No?”
“Change the location.”
She stares. “It’s in less than two hours.”
“Then move quickly.”
Her mouth parts, closes, then parts again. “Mr. Vasiliev, she said she had to call in three favors to get that reservation.”
“I’m sure you’ll survive.”
A flash of annoyance lights in her face. “You’re impossible.”
“I’ve been told.”
She sets the tablet down a little harder than necessary. “And where exactly do you want this new location to be?”
“Outside the city.”
That stops her.
“What?”
I move to the wardrobe built into the back wall of my office, already unbuttoning my cuffs. “Somewhere quiet. Controlled. Private.”
She follows me with her eyes, confusion turning to irritation. “You already had her background checked.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And I still don’t trust anyone.”
That quiets her for a moment. Not because she agrees. Because she’s trying to understand probably.
I pull out a fresh shirt and drape it over my arm. “The city is too exposed. Too many eyes. Too many exits. If I’m meeting a woman I barely know, it won’t be somewhere I can’t control the perimeter.”
Her mouth softens slightly. “You make dating sound like a hostage negotiation.”
“For men like me, it often is.”
She goes still at that.
I watch the thought land behind her eyes. Curiosity. Wariness. That same sharpened interest she gets whenever she senses the edges of the real me.
She doesn’t push this time.
Instead, she blows out a breath through her nose and reaches for the tablet again. “Fine. I’ll change it.”
She’s miffed. I can hear it in every clipped word. I shouldn’t enjoy that as much as I do.
“Good.”
“But if this woman declines because you’ve decided at the last minute to relocate her dinner to some mysterious secure compound in the woods,” she says, tapping furiously at the screen, “that’s on you.”
“It won’t be the woods.”
“That is not the reassuring detail you think it is.”
I let that one pass.
She starts calling restaurants, her voice calm and efficient as she negotiates tables, cancellations, transport, privacy. I step into the adjoining dressing room and change, listening to her work.
This should be simple.
Shirt. Jacket. Watch. Cufflinks.
A date with a suitable woman.
A strategic move toward the future I need.
Instead, every button I fasten feels like I’m putting on clothes for the wrong woman.
When I come back out, Zatanna is standing by my desk, the call just ending. She looks up.
And stops.
Her eyes flick over me in a quick, helpless sweep that tells me everything before she can hide it.
Black suit. Fresh shirt. Tie loosened just enough to suggest I didn’t care how devastating it looks.
Her throat moves when she swallows. “There,” she says finally, voice a fraction too soft. “I moved it.”
“Where?”
“Stone & Vale. Private estate restaurant in Westchester. Old-money place, very selective, impossible to get into on a normal night.” She pauses. “Apparently not impossible enough, since they bent over backward the second they heard your name.”
“Good.”
Her expression doesn’t change, but something in her posture does. A tiny closing-off. A reminder to herself, maybe, that she arranged this. That she’s sending me to another woman.
I hate that I notice. I hate more that I care.
She sets the updated reservation on the desk. “Your driver has the address. Marina’s car will pick her up in the city and bring her separately. Security at the estate has your updated requirements.”
Efficient. Thorough. Perfect.
And visibly unhappy about it.
I step closer. Too close for an employee. Too close for a man who intends to spend the night charming someone else.
“Zatanna.”
She looks up. “Yes?”
My gaze drops to her mouth for half a second before I drag it back to her eyes. “You did well.”
Her lashes flutter once. “Thanks.”
The room goes quiet. I should leave.
Instead, I adjust my cuff and say, “You’ll stay available tonight.”
Her brows rise. “For what?”
“In case I need something.”
Her lips part, her tone coming out dry. “Like an emergency extraction?”
“Possibly.”
That gets the faintest huff of laughter out of her.
And there it is again—that unbearable pull in my chest. The one that makes this whole plan feel like a mistake.
She steps back first, breaking the moment. “I’ll keep my phone on.”
“No.”
Her hand stills on the door handle. She turns, blinking at me. “No?”
I take my coat from the back of the chair, already shrugging it on. “You’re coming with me.”
For a second she just stares.
Then she laughs once, short and disbelieving. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You arranged the date,” I say, adjusting my cuffs. “You’ll be there in case anything changes.”
“Changes?” she echoes. “Mr. Vasiliev, I’m not a wedding planner with an emergency toolkit.”
“You’re my assistant.”
“I am not sitting at your date.”
“You won’t be sitting at it.”
Her brows rise. “That is not better.”
I almost smile. Almost. “You’ll be nearby.”
She shuts the door and turns fully back toward me, one hand on her hip now, the other still clutching the tablet. “Nearby where? Under the table? Behind a potted plant? Should I disguise myself as a sommelier?”
That does it. A quiet laugh slips out before I can stop it.
Her eyes widen a fraction, as if she didn’t expect to get that reaction out of me.
“You’re amusing when you’re angry,” I say.
“I’m not trying to be amusing. I’m trying to understand why on earth you need me there while you flirt with another woman.”
The words land between us, hotter than they should.
Flirt with another woman.
There’s something in her tone. Something brittle. Something sharp enough to make my chest tighten.
I step closer, slow enough to give her time to move if she wants to.
She doesn’t.
“Because,” I say quietly, “I don’t trust the situation.”
Her expression shifts. The irritation doesn’t vanish, but something underneath it softens into curiosity. Concern, maybe.
“This is because of what happened last night,” she says. “I overheard bits and pieces of it before I walked in…”
I hold her gaze, deciding not to chide her for that. “Partly.”
Her fingers tighten around the tablet. “You really think it could be dangerous?”
“I think caution keeps people alive.”
She swallows. And then, because she’s Zatanna and apparently incapable of letting silence sit where a dangerous question could go instead, she says, “Do all your dates require a security assessment and a contingency plan?”
“Only the important ones.”
She gives me a look. “That was not reassuring.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
For a moment neither of us moves.
Then she exhales slowly through her nose, glances toward the door, then back at me. “If I come, what exactly am I doing?”
“Watching.”
“That sounds illegal.”
“It isn’t.”
“It sounds deeply weird.”
“Also true.”
She looks offended by how calm I am about this. It’s adorable.
“I can’t just lurk around your date,” she says. “That’s insane.”
“You’ll be in the adjoining room.”
“There is an adjoining room?”
“At Stone & Vale? There are six.”
That miffs her all over again. “Of course there are.”
I take another step closer. She has to tilt her head back a little to keep looking at me, and the sight does things to my self-control I don’t have time to examine.
“You wanted to do your job well,” I say.
“I did not mean espionage.”
“You’ll survive.”
Her lips part, probably to argue again, but I cut in before she can.
“You said you wanted to find me a compatible partner.” My voice drops. “That means seeing how I am with them. Seeing whether it works.”
Her eyes flicker.
There it is again. That quiet, involuntary reaction every time I make her imagine me with another woman.
She hates this.
I shouldn’t enjoy that. I do anyway.
“And if it does work?” she asks, trying for dry and mostly landing on wounded.
I look at her for a beat too long. “Then you’ll tell me.”
The room changes.
The air feels tighter, heavier. She knows exactly what I’m saying now. That I don’t trust my own judgment where this is concerned. That I’m putting her beside me because somehow, impossibly, her opinion matters more than it should.
“That seems,” she says slowly, “like a terrible idea.”
“Why?”
A tiny pulse jumps in her throat. “Because,” she says, too carefully, “I may not be objective.”
The words hit harder than they have any right to.
I take one more step and stop just in front of her. “No,” I say softly. “You probably won’t.”
Her breath catches.
For one suspended second, all I can think about is the elevator. Her mouth opening under mine. The way she clung to me when the lights went out. The way she ran when they came back on.
I lower my voice. “Go home. Change into something appropriate.”
Her eyes widen. “Appropriate?”
“Yes.”
“For spying on your date?”
“For accompanying me.”
That lands too.
Her lips part again, this time in genuine surprise. “Accompanying you.”
“You heard me.”
“As what, exactly?”
I let my gaze travel over her face, her hair, the soft sweater still hanging off one shoulder from a too-long day. She suddenly seems very aware of every inch of herself under my scrutiny.
“My assistant,” I say.
A pause.
Then, because I can’t help myself, I add, “Try not to look too beautiful. I’d like to give the other woman a chance.”
Her cheeks go pink so fast it’s almost violent.
I take savage satisfaction in it.
“That’s…” She shakes her head, flustered. “That’s not funny.”
“No?”
“No.” But her voice is thin. Breathless.
And we both know she liked it.
I glance at my watch. “You have forty minutes.”
She stands there another second, clearly torn between indignation and obedience, wanting to argue and wanting something else entirely.
Then she lifts her chin. “Fine.”
“Fine,” I echo.
She turns for the door, then spins back once more, eyes narrowed. “And if this becomes weird, I’m blaming you.”
I smirk,“It’s already weird, Zatanna.”
That finally gets a reluctant laugh out of her.
She slips out, and the door closes behind her.
I stand in the silence for a moment, staring at the handle. Then I exhale slowly.
Taking her with me is a bad idea. A reckless one. Possibly the worst one I’ve had all week.
Which is exactly why I know I’m going to enjoy every second of it.