Chapter 21 Ransome
RANSOME
“Ransome Rozanov. Are you actually walk-of-shaming out of here?”
Amara’s voice stops me in my tracks. I was almost out the door too. Damn.
“It’s not the walk of shame if it’s my house,” I tell her, shoving my hand in the pocket of my slacks and looking back at her. Amara is laying on the bed, wearing nothing but a white sheet, exposed from the hips up.
Fucking hell.
It’s taking everything in me not to rip my clothes back off and jump back into bed with her. But I can’t.
“It’s your house, but it’s not your home. I understand,” she pouts, laying her head back down. But she knows what she’s doing.
I pull my hand back out and stalk over to her, my wing-tipped shoes clapping against the hard floor with every step. I stop in front of her and lean down, brace my fists on the mattress, fully aware that my fingers brush her nipple in the process, making her gasp despite herself.
She looks up at me, waiting. But I don’t say anything.
I pierce her soul using only my gaze and then grab her firmly by the chin, tipping her face up to mine before crashing my mouth against hers.
I part her lips with mine, my tongue finding hers, dancing with it, embracing it, holding it hostage before finally letting go.
I rip my mouth from hers and she gasps, both from the power of the kiss and the need for air. Then I look down at her without so much as a hint of a smile.
“I haven’t had sex with her,” I state.
And then I walk.
Only after I leave the room, knowing full well that she is in paralyzed shock, do I smirk.
The hot water of the rainfall showerhead beats down on my tense shoulders hard enough to peel off the first layer of skin. I need it.
This comes after beating out the frustration Amara caused me this morning.
That kiss left her speechless, doing the job I intended, but it also left me with blue balls that wouldn’t quit.
Now I’m just slow cooking myself in the shower until the water runs cold, because I can’t go back to bed and I don’t feel like getting out yet either.
Jenica was asleep when I got home. Or at least, the snoring from her cracked bedroom door told me as much.
But I know better than to assume she is ignorant to me being out all night.
Her door is usually closed. Probably locked.
But never cracked. That tells me she was lying awake wondering where I was. Probably wondering who I was with.
Eventually I have to face the music. Or in this case, the snoring. Although as soon as I step out of the shower, I realize I’m not that lucky.
“Look who decided to show up.” Jenica’s voice comes from the bathroom door, which is wide open.
I quickly snatch a towel off the rack and hold it in front of me.
“Jesus Christ. What do you want?” I snap.
Jenica is standing there casually, hip popped out, arms crossed over her chest, a smile on her naked face. I’m surprised she is willing to go without makeup in front of me. Not that I’m hiding much from her right now either.
“Nothing,” she says as her eyes run over the exposed parts of my anatomy, which right now is most of it. “Just wondering why you never came home last night.”
“What did I tell you about keeping tabs?” I growl as I wrap the towel around my waist. “It’s none of your business where I am.”
“And what did I tell you about making me look bad?”
I shake my head with a chuckle as I pass her. “Image has always been everything to you,” I mutter.
“Image is important in our world. In our position. I’d think you would know that, considering your status. We can’t hold Tristan off forever.”
She bites her lips the moment she says the words.
I slowly turn to look at her. “So you do know where your cousin is hiding.”
“No. But I know he won’t stay hiding forever. Especially if we give him more incentive. And you traipsing around with a pregnant woman isn’t going to sit well with him.”
“I don’t think he cares about you as much as you like to think,” I call back from the walk-in closet as I rummage for work clothes. “Blood or not.”
“You think I don’t know that?” she snaps, suddenly appearing in the doorway. So much for privacy. “The only blood Tristan cares about is bloodshed. But this isn’t about him. It’s about you not respecting me.”
Jesus fucking Christ. Here we go.
“I put a ring on your finger. I play the part in public. I give you free fucking rein to my house,” I list.
“And meanwhile, your baby mama has free rein of your other house. Not to mention the rest of your life. The least you could do is pretend you actually care about me.”
I finish dressing and stand in front of her. “Our marriage is contractual. Neither of us actually wanted this.”
Jenica swallows hard. “So I’m not wanted at all. Got it.”
Fucking hell. I don’t have time for this. “I have to go to work,” I say, making my way out.
But as I open the door, she calls out from the end of the foyer.
“Don’t forget we have that dinner to go to tonight.”
I stop without turning around. “What dinner?”
“The charity event?” she asks, her tone soaked in sass.
“Right,” I answer.
Fuck.
It’s bad enough that I have to play house with her. She’s the most difficult roommate a man could ask for. Not to mention a cockblock, although I have found my way around that so far.
Still, I don’t want to be stupid. I know what the stakes are, hence the tightrope I am walking.
I get that Jenica doesn’t like the way this would all look if it got out that Amara is here and she is pregnant with my child.
But what I don’t get is the snappy attitude.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say my wife had feelings for me. Which is ludicrous.
When I get to work, everything is on fire. The secretary—Janine? I don’t know, she’s new too—is rushing around trying to do things that aren’t her job.
“Where’s my coffee?” I bark out as I walk in my office.
“I ordered it, but it hasn’t arrived yet, sir,” she answers.
“Ordered it?”
“I’m also working on your schedule, Mr. Rozanov. But I have a few questions—”
I cut her off. “Why are you doing my schedule? You don’t know a damn thing about my schedule.”
“Because—”
“Where is my assistant?” I snap, racking my brain for her name. Maggie, Mallory… “Molly. Where the hell is Molly?”
Janine just stares at me. Like the next words out of her mouth are going to send her to the guillotine. “She’s gone.”
“Gone?” I snap and she winces. “Where did she go?”
“You fired her, sir.”
Right. Fuck.
“Figure out where my coffee is. And then bring me a list of all the applicants on file for the assistant position. And do not touch my schedule again.”
“Yes, sir.” She scampers out of the room in a tizzy.
I take in a deep breath and let it out in a persecuted sigh. Everything is on fire. My entire life is one big forest fire and I am just standing in the middle, watching it burn out of control.
And if there is anything that grinds on me, that I cannot stand, that I will not tolerate, it’s losing control.
I need a competent assistant. One that gets my coffee order right and writes up my schedule in a way that actually makes some fucking sense. One that doesn’t stare at me like a deer in the fucking headlights only to stutter out a half-literate answer to whatever question I ask.
I need Amara.
I grit at the thought of it. It would be one thing to ask her to come back after firing her and sending her and her siblings packing.
It would be another to have her working in her condition.
She needs to focus on the baby, on making sure that she isn’t under any stress.
The last thing she needs to be worrying about is being at my every beck and call, though I love when she’s in my service.
My phone rings, thankfully, and I yank it out of my pocket before even looking at who it is. “Yeah?”
“Boss, we’ve got a mess on our hands. You sitting down?”
It’s Maverick. I should have looked before I answered, because I’m not in the mood for whatever fuckery he’s got going on.
“Let me guess. You picked a fight at a Chadovich bar and you need backup?”
“No,” he says. “Though that does sound like me.”
“Lost a poker game and short on cash because you spent it all at a strip club the night before?” I ask, sifting through mail that has been piled up on my desk. Amara would know to sort it. To leave only the important ones on my desk and deal with the others.
“Listen, Ransome. There was a snag with one of the shipments,” he says.
That stops me. “What kind of snag?”
“Not totally sure. Somewhere en-route in the Midwest, there was police activity surrounding some of the trucks. El Paso stopped the shipments on their end when word got out.”
“What mile marker?” I bark out.
“I texted you all the info earlier. They’re off the hook, but from the sounds of it, the cops were tipped off.”
My jaw vises shut. “Tipped off or paid off?”
“That was my thought too,” he says.
“Still no word on him?” I don’t have to say Tristan’s name for Maverick and anyone else to know who I am referring to.
“Nope,” he answers. “Wherever that kusok der’ma is, he’s hiding good. For now anyways.”
Maverick’s Russian isn’t the best, but he’s right about two things.
Tristan is a piece of shit.
And we are going to find him.
It’s one thing to fuck with my head. To fuck with my life.
But now he’s fucking with my money.
Wherever he is, it’s about time we lured him out.