Chapter 7 Ransome
RANSOME
Jasmine.
Rose.
Patchouli.
I’ve spent more time than I care to admit researching these scents and what perfumes contain them. I’ve narrowed it down to three. But I am pretty sure I know which one is Amara’s signature scent. It’s Gucci. And it’s called, of all things, Sweet Seduction.
The very idea of that little minx using something to attempt to seduce someone makes my teeth grind. She needs to stop. No more perfume.
She’s dangerous enough already.
I shake that voice from my head. The one that whispers every time she enters the room and every time she leaves.
She’s attractive, obviously. I may be a Rozanov, the next-in-line pakhan, but I’m still a man.
And no man with a dick in his pants could ever be within a hundred feet of Amara and not be aroused.
I’ve done well controlling that instinct since I hired her.
Every day, I’ve resisted the urge that tells me to slam the door and lock it every time she’s in the room.
To rip her blouse from her breasts with enough force to send every pearl button flying.
To hike her too-tight pencil skirt up over her ass so I can spread her across my desk and devour her.
I haven’t done anything even remotely fucking close.
I haven’t gotten laid in more time than I care to admit, either.
But that’s not unusual for Bratva men. Nothing is more distracting than an irresistible woman, and with the new El Paso deal in the works and the Chadovich family causing problems every time I turn around, Tristan Chadovich especially, I can’t afford even the smallest distraction.
No matter how sweet.
I pass through the hallway of my inner city penthouse while straightening my tie. I don’t usually stay the night here. I have an estate outside of the city proper that is much more private, much more locked down.
But that kind of security means more people. Guards. Servants. Cooks and maids. I don’t want eyes on me all the time. So I keep my above-board life, everything Apex-related, out there. That office is for the world to see.
This one is for me and me alone.
Well, me and Amara. I’ve sent her here for random errands from time to time. And as I pass my office, I stop, jaw clenching—because I swear to God I can smell her again.
Jasmine. Rose. Patchouli. It’s like the scent never left. She was here the other day, by my order of course. It’s strange that she was here long enough to leave an impression, though. It goes without saying she should never linger. Get in, get out.
At least, I assumed it went without saying.
The other day, she disobeyed that unsaid understanding. I don’t have any proof, but I fucking know it in my bones—because I could smell her. Almost like she was still there, just out of sight, just around every corner, behind every curtain, tucked within every closet.
Jasmine. Rose. Patchouli.
Haunting me.
Fuck that perfume to hell. It’s toying with my senses, fogging my brain and snaking itself around my throat. I need to focus.
When I get to the Apex offices, Amara is standing at attention behind her desk to greet me. Black pencil skirt, too tight as usual, far enough up her thighs that I can see her pale knees. Black heels turn her calves into smooth curves. And the smell…
Sweet, sweet Seduction.
A sleeveless, plum-colored, button up blouse, ruffled in the front. Her dark hair is curled. Her lips are glossy and her cheeks are pink.
In her hand is my coffee.
“Good morning, Mr. Rozanov.” It’s the same thing she always says. The thing she is supposed to say.
Yet today it sounds different. More… velvety. A purr, almost.
Pull yourself the fuck together, man.
Her lips turn slightly in the hint of a pout and I realize it’s probably because my scowl just deepened.
“Here’s your coffee. Half the time today.” She offers the smallest smile.
I just arch one eyebrow. “Half the time?”
“It took me half the time today. From the time I ordered it until handing it to you now, it took half the time it usually does.”
“You don’t have to rush, Miss Parker. I’d prefer things to be done right than in a hurry.”
Her expression drops. “Oh. I didn’t mean—” She stutters before motioning to the desk. “Your schedule is—”
“—where it is every day. Where it should be. In the place that your job requires you to put it. Now, is there anything else, Miss Parker? Even if my coffee was rushed, that doesn’t mean I have time to waste.”
“No, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”
Amara holds her head high, though I do notice her throat jut with a harsh swallow. Her soft throat that is most likely drenched in that fucking perfume. Even now, as I leave her behind, I can smell it.
But before I can take in a breath of relief, my phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s my father.
Fuck me.
“Yeah?” I shove the single syllable through the phone.
“Good morning, son. Fine day, isn’t it?”
Irritation crawls across my skin like a flesh-eating virus. He wants something. I know that because he only calls when he wants something. As if I don’t have enough shit to deal with.
“It’s a busy day is what it is. What do you need?”
“Running an empire is a lot of work, I understand.”
I grit my teeth but don’t say anything.
“I was hoping we could catch up later, son.”
This is what he says when he wants to have dinner or drinks or lunch. It never has anything to do with the food or actually catching up. We aren’t that kind of family and these aren’t those kinds of check-ins.
Something deep in the underbelly of New York City is going on.
“What did you have in mind?”
“Cocktails with your mother… and the Chadovichs.”
“Which Chadovichs?” I snarl.
“Dmitry. Katya. Tristan. Jenica.”
The first two are expected. Dmitry and Katya are at the top of the hierarchy that is the Chadovich family.
Jenica is their daughter, and their only child.
A spoiled, sassy girl whom I’ve never personally been fond of.
And Tristan even less so. He’s Katya’s nephew, son of her late brother.
An arrogant man with a fast mouth and a slow hand, which is exactly why he died instantly of a gunshot wound.
.45 to the face, point blank. Tristan was standing next to him. He was twelve.
You’d think that traumatic experience would have taught him lessons in humility, in caution. It did not. Tristan is a cocky, ballsy, loose cannon and an endless pain in my fucking ass.
“Is there a reason we have to meet with them?” I ask.
“We have some… smoothing over to do.”
I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to flood my mouth with the distinct taste of blood. “Who the fuck did what?”
“Your friend Maverick is a never-ending problem it seems. Anyways, Dmitry and I may have come to a… conclusion… about how to handle things. A truce, for lack of better words.”
I’d rather there be any other word used than that. Truces between rivaling Bratva families are typically done one way. An old-school way. A way that I am not about to fucking go along with.
I hang up the phone abruptly and turn on my heels, ready to blow the place apart. I’m going to need a schedule change, which pisses me the fuck off. It’s not even 9 A.M., for Christ’s sake.
But just as I cross the threshold of my door, I run straight into Amara with enough force that I have to reach out and grab her to make sure she doesn’t go skidding across the marble floor.
“Fuck,” I growl, my hands clamped around her biceps. I know it hurts because she gasps as her hands find a place of their own, planted flat on my chest to brace herself. They’re smaller, softer, warmer than I would’ve imagined.
“I’m sorry. Oh my God, Mr. Rozanov, I’m so sorry.”
“How long have you been standing here?”
“I haven’t. I mean, not long. I heard you talking to your dad and—”
With her arms still clutched hard enough in my hands to leave prints, I drag her into my office and kick the door shut. “What did you hear?”
Amara’s eyes are wide with fear. “N-nothing! Just that he wants to have cocktails. So I went back to my office and I made the changes to your schedule. But I think I dropped it…”
She looks around and it’s only then that I realize she is still pressed against me.
“Look at me,” I growl. Amara’s attention whips back into my direction. I let go of her but she stays put, too startled to move. “Spying on people gets you nowhere but trouble. Do you understand me?”
“I didn’t— I wasn’t— I just made you a new schedule because you made plans with—”
“I said: Do. You. Understand. Me?” I drill the words in my mouth straight into her deep, wide eyes.
She nods before words register then stutters out, “Y-yes… sir. Yes, sir.”
There is a moment, a fraction of a moment, a flicker of one at best, where my eyes drop contact with hers and float down to where her mouth is.
Her perfect pink lips, quivering from the interaction.
I could kiss them. I could suck the soul straight from her body.
This woman has never been incompetent before.
She should be punished for it. Kiss her in a way that will ruin her for any other man, then throw her aside.
But I won’t.
Because it would never end with just that.
“Good.” I release her and stomp behind my desk. It’s safer to keep something between us. There’s no telling what I would do if I stayed within arm’s reach.
Without another word, Amara stumbles out of my office. She’s a smart girl. Hopefully, she can take a hint.
Some lines are not meant to be crossed.