Chapter 1 #3
Chuckling, I closed the email screen, moving to the Excel document I’d been working on. At least I’d finished the report before leaving the office the day before. All I needed to do was to doublecheck entries. “I’m a soothsayer who can read minds as well as see into the future.”
“I wish that was true. Then you could tell me definitively if I need to dump Brian.”
“I don’t need my precognitive abilities to offer you advice. Dump his ass. Toss him to the curb.”
“Tell me how you really feel about him. Don’t worry. I have other irons in the fire.” Somehow, she didn’t sound overly convincing. I knew Tawny too well. Something was on her mind and given the last favor I’d performed was being her plus one at the Christmas party, I had every reason to be dubious.
“About time. So what’s the favor?” I pressed, my nerves still on edge. Stash wanted the report by nine sharp. That left me with eighteen minutes to doublecheck the formula.
“Oh, no. It’s a bit too complicated to go into over the phone. How about lunch today? My treat.”
I glared at my little bag of eatable goodies, which I’d forgotten to put into the fridge in the break room. Another tell that I shouldn’t have gotten out of bed this morning. Something about the way she mentioned having lunch caught me off guard. “That’s fine. Didn’t you get my email anyway?”
“Girl. I’ve been swamped since I walked in. I didn’t see anything, but you know me.”
“Yes, I do. Our favorite table in the atrium?”
“I’ll be there. And please say yes.”
“Not until you tell me what the favor is.” Her favors usually got me in trouble. Still laughing, I shoved my phone into my purse and returned to the spreadsheet.
I’d obviously gotten lost in the numbers and not the ones on my watch I should be paying attention to.
There were several aspects of Stash Chertov that were unnerving, but by far the biggest was his ability to communicate subtly yet effectively in silence.
He used his deliberate actions to get his point across.
A deep sigh or a lingering look lasted long after the discussion was concluded.
The way his eyes narrowed when he was scrutinizing the person sitting across from him was methodical.
There was no rushing him, no pushing him into doing anything he didn’t want to do.
And when a decision was made, he could burn down the world, fire an entire room full of people, or condemn a whole week’s worth of work with just a few words.
I knew because I’d been a party to him doing so early in my employment with him. To say he was difficult to work with was an understatement.
What he lacked in words he made up for with his overbearing presence.
Right now, what I felt was surge of electricity coursing through me, a live wire of activity during a raging thunderstorm.
However, instead of my blood boiling as someone might expect, it felt as if ice was running through my veins.
Very slowly I looked up from the computer screen and into his eyes.
Stash was standing in the doorway, his massive body a fortress while his broad shoulders filled the space.
Wearing one of his signature Stefano Ricci suits, the luxurious Italian linen accentuating every sculpted inch, his jaw was set, a usual sign of his frustration.
Yet the hardline expression was incapable of downplaying his gorgeous features or muscular physique.
With the angle of the morning sun streaming in through his office windows, his entire frame was surrounded by a luminous glow. In my mind, he appeared godlike. Or maybe I should call him the antichrist given his surly attitude.
For whatever reason he was even more handsome. Maybe the bold color of his tie. Instead of the usual crisp white shirt and dark linen suit with a coordinating dark and gloomy tie, the shade was a deep maroon. Close enough to vivid for government work.
Or that of a Bratva enforcer.
I bit back a smile with the ridiculous thought.
There was no other way to describe him but as tall, dark, and devastating.
“Ms. Mitchell, I’d like to see you in my office.”
As if by some instinct I checked my watch, immediately realizing the error of my ways. Yes, he was ten minutes early in ‘fetching me,’ which he always did even with a scheduled meeting, but I should know better than to question his motives.
“Is there somewhere you’d rather be, Ms. Mitchell?”
If I didn’t know better, which I certainly did, I’d say there was a gleam in his eyes. For only a split second. Then it was gone and I was fearful the lack of sleep was creating false images.
I shook my head, more to shove away cobwebs than anything. If he only knew how I really wanted to answer him. Our sparring was Olympic level and no one, including Tawny, knew why.
Why yes, I’d rather be anywhere rather than deal with your sullen attitude and over the top entitlement. Where, you ask? I’m glad you did. Perhaps getting a root canal or listening to a full eight hours of country music piped through my iPod. Or perhaps participating in a hot dog eating contest.
Instead, I offered him the same smile I’d given the jerk outside only thirty minutes before.
Saccharine sweet with a huge dose of toxicity. “Absolutely not. Your wish is my command.”