Chapter 3
3
Roman
W hat an exciting morning it’s turning out to be. Worth getting shot for. This girl is way beyond my experience, and I’m bowled over.
Most women I meet are sharp as flint, with brittle smiles and avaricious, grasping hands. They aspire to nothing more than the same privileged life they grew up in and, if possible, to marry well. They all want me, of course, but I don’t want them. The occasional dalliance is enough to keep my men from asking too many questions.
I certainly never expected to be struck by the lightning bolt that is this curvaceous little chef.
I hold out my hand, and Quinn puts the key into my palm without hesitation.
Goddammit. She’s scared of me, but a more profound, older fear scratched deep into her psyche makes her acquiescent. I’m accustomed to people cowering before me, but for her, there’s a certain resignation, a sense that it’s the natural order for her to be put upon, dominated, used. I don’t fucking like it.
I lock the door and turn, meeting her eyes. “Go home. This bakery is closed.”
She shakes her head. “I can’t. My boss will be furious. And,” she breaks eye contact, “I have nowhere to go. I live here and sleep upstairs in the storeroom.”
I feel a sudden flash of murderous rage. Who fucked her over? How did it come to this?
“Stay here,” I say. “I’m gonna search the place.” I walk past her and flip the countertop. “You heard what I said. I got shot tonight. Someone might be hiding out in here. For all I know, you’re in on a plot to take me out.”
It’s all I can do to suppress a laugh as she frowns in confusion. I know perfectly well she’s not a conspirator. This docile nymph of a girl interests me greatly for reasons I don’t quite understand, and I want to know more about her.
Quinn is stunned into silence and doesn’t try to stop me as I walk into the workroom. The space is full of the trappings of her industry: the mixer, the piles of flour, and the dough proving in basins. I notice a dusty handprint on the side of the kitchen island, and I can’t resist putting my own hand over it and imagining her toiling tirelessly through the night.
This woman is straight out of a fairytale—trapped and working her fingers to the bone, waiting for something to change. She doesn’t know she’s a secret princess, but I see it, and she mesmerizes me. I have an insatiable need to reach into her life and occupy it like an invading force.
Wooden stairs lead to the mezzanine level, and as I ascend, I realize it’s Quinn’s little kingdom. She has built a wall of supplies to block the view of her sleeping area, and as I round the corner, I see the small space she calls home.
It’s so meager, so basic: a beat-up denim backpack, a tiny light-up mirror on an upturned cardboard box, mascara, lip balm, a hairbrush, and a foam mattress laid out over the splintered wood floor.
It’s tidy, though, and I notice little details. Sprigs of Gypsophila in a chipped bud vase. Free postcards from art galleries stuck to the wall with tape. And, on the drying rack next to her heater, a few items of fairly decent clothing.
I reach over and flip the waistband of her pants to read the label. My mind runs away with me, imagining her in beautiful, well-tailored pieces that show off her luscious body.
She’s managing to get by somehow, and I find myself rooting for her.
Attagirl, rusalka. You can dig your way out of this mess. I know it.
Then I remember that she doesn’t have to. Not with me around.
There’s a knock at the bakery door, and I return to the shopfront to open it.
Officer Blake knows he has to jump when I call if he wants his perks. He thought he wanted to be an honest cop but soon got dollar signs in his eyes when he saw how deep my pockets could be for the right people.
I’ll never understand why people insist crime doesn’t pay when it so obviously fucking does; I just gotta keep law enforcement, courts, and judges sweet. It’s well worth the several billion a year it costs to prevent me and my trusted associates from landing in the joint.
Blake is pleased with himself; if he had a tail, he’d wag it. “It’s all clear, Mr. Kazanov. I called your people, and they’re sending a car.”
“Good.” I hand over a sheaf of bills. “You fuck off now.”
Blake snatches the money and departs. I turn and see Quinn behind the counter, waiting. For what, I don’t know. Does she think this might all disappear if she returns to her usual patterns? There’s no way she’ll get rid of me that easily.
“Get your stuff,” I say to her, picking up my coat and pulling it over my bare back. “You’re coming with me.”
She doesn’t move, and I glare at her. I’m not used to being disobeyed, and I’m about to insist when a gasp of terror escapes her, stopping me in my tracks.
When I was ambushed, I grabbed my gun from the glovebox of my car; it’s hardly inconspicuous, but I didn’t have my holster. She saw the weapon in my inside pocket.
“I won’t hurt you, Quinn.” I take a step toward her. “But I’m not a man who makes requests. Don’t kid yourself; I’m not asking. I’m telling.”
With that, she darts into the back, reappearing a minute later with the backpack over her shoulder. “What am I gonna say to my boss? When she finds out I shut the shop?—”
“She’ll be fine,” I say, interrupting. “I’ll see to that. You’re not sleeping here, and that’s the end of it.”
I hand her the key, and she doesn’t say anything more. Instead, she joins me on the sidewalk and locks the door behind us. A black sedan pulls up, and I open the passenger door for her.
“Shall we?”