Chapter 16 Amara
AMARA
The man of my dreams has become my worst nightmare.
Ransome lets me leave the penthouse that is my jail cell only after I’ve agreed to take a shower and put on a forest green dress that he remembers me wearing on my second day on the job.
The fact he recalls what I was wearing months ago on a specific day tells me one of two things:
He found the less-than-professional, hip-hugging dress that showed off both my ass and my tits attractive as I’d hoped…
Or…
He thought I looked thirsty in it and it was the giveaway that I was obsessed with his attention.
Either way, positive or negative, it made an impression. And it’s the dress he wants me to wear tonight as he takes me out to Cherie, one of NYC’s most coveted and expensive cocktail lounges. Never could I have imagined going on a date with Ransome Rozanov. Not a business dinner—a date.
I also never imagined that the object of my affection would also turn out to be part of the Russian mafia, yet here we are.
He guides me into the dark, swanky room, to a high top table right in the middle of everything.
I haven’t been to many restaurants with Ransome save for a couple of Apex business meetings where he required the service of his assistant, yet somehow, I feel like sitting in the middle of the room isn’t his M.O.
If anything, I feel like he usually has a VIP room or at the very least, a hidden corner with eyelines to every exit.
Apparently, I don’t know this man as well as I thought I did. Because as we wind through the tables, the eyes of other men pull away from their dates to look at me. And with that, his hand falls to my lower back, warm, firm and possessive.
I know better than to think it’s because he is interested in me. He’s not. Interested in what he can obtain from me, maybe. Interested in using me for gain? Sure. But not interested in me.
Ransome helps me onto a leather stool before positioning himself across from me. He’s wearing a fitted black suit with a deep plum button-down underneath.
Purple.
This is not an Apex meeting. And it’s not a boorish Tuesday at the office meeting, either. It now makes sense. Purple is for dinners and lunches and drinks with his father and the other Rozanovs and sometimes, the Chadovichs.
Purple is for the Bratva.
“Good evening, Mr. Rozanov,” a waitress says as she stops at our table. “Would you like your usual?”
“Yes,” Ransome answers her with no emotion in his voice.
“And for the lady?” she asks.
I open my mouth to order a margarita, but before I can say anything at all, Ransome talks for me. “She will have a gin and tonic.”
“Of course.”
The waitress makes her way to the bar and I stare at Ransome incredulously. But he doesn’t even bother to look at me. Instead, he scans the menu, his jaw taut and posture ridged.
“What the hell?” I ask and immediately, I see a crack in his stony expression. He doesn’t like that I’m swearing. Well, I don’t like that he’s being a dick.
“A girlfriend of Ransome Rozanov watches her mouth,” he growls, setting the menu down and dragging his eyes up to meet mine.
“And a boyfriend of Amara Parker doesn’t assume she likes gin and tonics. Which, by the way, I don’t.”
Ransome’s gaze studies me hard but I don’t so much as blink. My heart, however, is slamming against my chest like a jackhammer at the intensity. Under any other pretenses, I would have drank anything he ordered me.
But that was before he threatened me and locked me in his penthouse.
“You do understand that this is a test, right? An interview of sorts?”
“An interview?” I snort as the waitress sets our drinks down along with two small plates that I assume are for something else on his “usual” menu when he comes here.
“We are here to discuss our contract,” he says, his voice neither too loud nor too soft. “Or have you forgotten? You’ve lost your edge a little, Miss Parker.”
My voice is two volume notches higher than I think he prefers but I honestly don’t give a fuck.
“Of course.” I offer the world’s sugariest smile while picking up my pine-tree-flavored soda water. “How could I forget? You only recently released me from solitary confinement.”
“You’ll get your phone back when I know I can trust you.”
At that, I bark out a laugh. “When you trust me? And when will that be?”
“When you’ve signed the contract,” Ransome answers, pulling out a piece of paper from his coat and presenting me with it and a pen.
I look down at it, then back up at him. A moment later, the waitress sets down a charcuterie board and another plate that looks like caviar.
I grab an olive and pop it in my mouth, chewing pensively as my eyes skim over the contract. Immediately, my eyes veer back up to the top line.
“Hold on. ‘Termination of employment as personal assistant to the CEO of Apex’? You’re firing me?!”
Ransome takes a cracker and spreads a tiny spoonful of caviar onto it.
“I am repositioning you,” he corrects. Something about the way he says the word makes my mind immediately wander somewhere else.
Somewhere that makes me sit straighter and cross my legs under the table, a difficult task considering the dress I am wearing.
“So I am no longer your assistant?”
“You are still my assistant. But your job description is… slightly different. If you keep reading, you will see that. Also, take note of the change to your sal—”
“Holy shit,” I let out when I see the number. “That’s double what you’re paying me now.”
Ransome’s lips screw into a look of disgust at my lack of tact, but I haven’t seen those many zeros in reference to my name, well, ever.
“Because I will be expecting more of you,” he says flatly. “A lot more.”
It’s quiet for a moment while we eat the appetizers on the table and I pound my way through the gin and tonic. I don’t know what’s making my head spin more, the alcohol or the words on the papers in front of me.
Miss Amara Parker agrees to contractually date Mr. Ransome Rozanov, monogamously.
Miss Amara Parker will not engage in any romantic, sexual, or intimate relations with anyone of the opposite sex, both platonic and otherwise.
“What if I have friends who are guys? Guys I met before you?” I ask, setting the paper back down.
Ransome casually reaches for a piece of toasted bread and drags it through the melted brie on the board. “You won’t,” he says without looking at me.
“But—”
“You. Won’t. Not if you sign the contract.”
I shake my head and keep reading because what else am I going to do?
After that, it’s a lot of the norm. Well, normal for an arranged dating contract anyways.
Public affection is mandatory but at his discretion.
Appearances as a couple, both in business and pleasure contexts, are mandatory, also at Ransome’s discretion.
Monogamy is mentioned again, most likely to drill it into my brain, I’m sure.
I am about to set the paper down, sign it, toss it at him and order a drink I actually like, when I stop.
The last line has me stuck.
I read it several times to make sure I am understanding it right. But in the end, my brow stitches together.
“I see you’ve come to the incentives disclosure,” Ransome remarks as he runs an orange rind around the inside of his glass.
“‘Relationship shall remain professional behind closed doors aside from… private activities’?” I ask. My eyes flash up to him. “I hope you mean housekeeping.”
“Call it that if you like, but I think you know what it means.”
I blink. “Why?”
“Why what?” Ransome asks, tossing the rind aside and taking a sip of his old fashioned.
“Why would you include something like that if the relationship isn’t real?”
“Like it states: incentives.”
“Incentives for what?”
For the first time in minutes, Ransome makes eye contact with me. “We can start with the incentive not to kill you. You know a lot for a personal assistant. You’ve seen a lot. Even if it was through the slats on my office closet door…”
I let out an involuntary gasp and my cheeks run hot.
Ransome doesn’t seem fazed as he goes on. “As you are well aware, Amara, my life is very busy. A lot of moving parts. It can be stressful at times. And relieving that stress is something I have neglected to prioritize.”
“And let me guess.” I narrow my eyes at him with a coy smile. “Relieving that stress is going to be part of my job?”
Ransome looks at me again and pops the cherry from his drink into his mouth as an answer.
I lean back, shaking my head. I need another drink. Or ten, even if they’re gin and tonics.
For a moment, I say nothing at all. But Ransome doesn’t seem to mind. He also doesn’t look worried, bothered, interested, or otherwise. It’s as if he knows how this is going to go and he already considers it to be in the bag.
Normally, that kind of confidence would be kind of a turn-on. But right now, it feels more like manipulation. Arrogance. Which is why I respond the way I do.
“And if I don’t want to?”
Ransome’s lips tick in the smallest hint of a smirk. “I think we both know that’s a lie.”
I study him for a moment and come to the realization that I’m not going to win this battle. Any of it.
With that, I hold out my hand. Wordlessly, Ransome provides me with the pen. I take one more glance at the contract. I can’t even imagine what Electra would say. What my siblings would think.
Then my eyes lock on the number again.
I could help them get out of that nasty house, away from our father who, thanks to an ungodly amount of alcohol and scapegoat depression, has become more of a fixture in the living room than an actual human.
I could also spend a little more money on myself. Fewer frozen dinners and knock-off heels and more department store blouses and takeout from places like, well, this.
So I sign it.
I whip the pen across the line and sign it all away. My dignity, my pride, my time, and my free will. All of it handed over to Ransome Rozanov because, in the end, I can’t let my siblings down.
“You are a wise girl, Miss Parker,” Ransome says, using a black Visa between his pointer and middle finger to wordlessly hail the waitress. She runs the check right there on a keypad and he puts the card back in his wallet, which he tucks into his jacket pocket along with the contract.
It strikes me, again, how different his world is from mine. Both of his worlds. The one made of money and status, and the one made of… actually, I don't think I want to know.
But you will, a tiny voice whispers at the back of my mind. You signed.
God help me, I did.
Afterwards, Ransome holds out his hand to help me off the stool. I take it, ignoring the heat of the contact. If what he said is to be believed, we're going to have much more contact than this in the next six months.
I don't entertain that thought. I'm not sure I can without my legs turning to jelly.
As we make our way out the door, me in front of him, him behind with his hand on my lower back again, I ignore the stares. The bar has gotten a lot busier since we arrived, and it feels like everyone is staring at us. Like they’re here to watch us.
Just as the door opens, Ransome pulls me against him, hard.
“What are you—?” I start to ask when I am suddenly blinded by camera flashes.
“Mr. Rozanov!”
“Ransome! A photo! Ransome!”
“What is happening?” I whisper as he keeps walking. He’s also still holding me against him as he moves through the camera clad crowd.
“It’s called paparazzi, dorogoya. Get used to it.”
We make it down the stairs and Ransome’s driver pulls up in his black Mercedes. But just before we reach the door, another guy, this one with a microphone, steps in front of us.
“Ransome! Who’s your friend?” he asks and again, Ransome pulls me into him. “Or is she more?”
I expect Ransome to shove him out of the way, to move us around the creep and rip the car door open. But instead, he wraps his palm around the side of my neck, his thumb pressed firmly to my jaw, forcing my chin to tip up.
Then, without notice, his mouth covers mine. His tongue runs along my bottom lip, his jaw working my mouth open.
Oh. My. God.
He's kissing me.
My boss is kissing me.
My body goes boneless before I even realize what I'm doing. I part my lips just slightly—not that Ransome needed the input—and suddenly, I can feel his tongue on mine.
It's hot. It's sinful. It's just classy enough not to ruin his reputation, but hell, if it hasn't just ruined me.
The kiss goes deeper for a moment and then, just as quickly, he pulls away.
The driver, who must have gotten out of the car while Ransome was sucking the soul from me, opens the door, and Ransome guides me into the back seat before sliding in next to me.
“Who was that?” I ask when my breath finally returns to my lungs.
“A reporter for TMZ. We have an image to keep if my family and the Chadovichs are going to believe us.”
“Won’t this make them mad?” I ask.
“Furious.”
I don’t ask any more questions. The ride back to his penthouse is completely silent. It isn’t until he walks me upstairs, unlocks the door, and waits for me to go inside that he breathes a word at all.
“Here,” he says, handing me my phone.
“Wait,” I say as panic rises in my chest again. “I have to stay here?”
But Ransome doesn’t answer the question. He simply punches a code into the security system. “Don’t misuse it. I will know.”
With that, he leaves. The door latches and locks. And I nearly collapse from the whirlwind of it all.