2. Lisa
Two
Lisa
I’m in the kitchen, elbow-deep in a sink full of dishes, when somebody knocks on my front door like they fucking own the place.
Three hard knocks. The kind that rattle your doorframe. The kind that say, open NOW .
I freeze, soapy hands hovering over a plate, water running down my forearms.
The fuck?
My eyes go to the clock on the microwave.
It’s two in the afternoon on a Tuesday. Jasmine’s at Anthony’s, her boyfriend.
The cleaning lady doesn’t come anymore. Neither does the driver.
Or any of my dead husband’s former goons.
The gardener’s gone. And I don’t have any extra money for deliveries.
Nobody knocks anymore. Nobody comes here.
They haven’t since Ray’s funeral, and even then it was just a handful of hyenas come to see what was left to feed on…
I dry my hands on a dish towel and tell my heart to settle down.
Probably just Jehovah’s Witnesses. Or somebody selling solar panels.
I look down at myself and grimace. I’m wearing an old blue sundress with thin straps that I pulled on this morning because our AC’s on strike again and anything heavier feels like hell.
No bra, with my hair pulled back in a knot I haven’t touched since yesterday.
I’m sticky and I probably smell like Dawn. Lord .
Whoever it is will just have to take me as I am. Maybe it’ll teach them to knock like that.
I cross the foyer barefoot, the wood feeling cool under my soles. One thought on a loop in my head. Three hard knocks . Like a man’s…
A tickle of warning runs down the back of my neck, but I push it away. Ray’s been dead for weeks. The men who used to come and go through this house aren’t coming anymore. The contract with the Russians never got finalized. And I’ve been praying and telling myself they probably forgot…
I open.
Oh.
Oh, no.
There is a man on my porch.
A MAN .
At least six feet of piles of muscles on top of muscles, maybe taller, broad enough that he blocks the sunlight at his back.
With thick black hair swept back. And a real fucking beard.
Like a real man. None of that scruff shit.
It’s full, neat, ink-dark, makes you want to run your fingers through it.
And it frames a full pink mouth I should not be staring at.
Gorgeous tattoos peek out from his collar and down the backs of his hands in intricate lines.
And, of course, this goddamn male supermodel is wearing a three-piece suit.
Charcoal grey, perfectly fitted, with his white shirt open at the collar, no tie.
And then there are his eyes. Lord have mercy.
His eyes are the bluest blue I’ve ever seen.
Pale, almost grey at the edges, fringed with dark lashes that have no business being on a face this masculine.
And they’re looking at me like…like… like I’m something he’s been hungry for… for a long, long time.
My stomach drops, my pulse trips, my traitor nipples tighten under the thin cotton of my dress, and I press my arms tighter over my chest, praying to all that’s holy that maybe that’ll help.
Who is this man, and why is he looking at me like… that?
He doesn’t say anything for a beat, just takes me in from head to toe, then back up.
Slowly. The kind of looking I haven’t been on the receiving end of in…
God. Ever. Ray never looked at me like this, not even at the beginning.
Ray looked at me like he was inventorying property.
This man is looking at me like I’m… I don’t even know!
I take in the sheer size of him. The way he’s standing, tall, big and broad and fucking magnificent. The lack of a single ounce of nervousness in his body. Whoever he is, he is not afraid of being seen at this door in broad daylight.
Run, girl. Slam the door. But I don’t move.
“Mrs. Venn?” he asks.
His voice.
Sweet baby Jesus.
It’s deep, low, gravelly, and… Scottish. Scottish . His brogue is thick enough to roll under my skin, smooth enough that Mrs. Venn comes out of his mouth sounding fucking filthy. My thighs press together before my brain catches on.
Oh, hell no. Get it together, girl.
He clears his throat and introduces himself, “Adam Maksimov.”
The name hits me like a slap.
The Russians. The goddamn contract!
So they sent the biggest, most terrifying, hottest man I have ever seen in my life to my front porch, in a three-piece suit, on a Tuesday afternoon, while I’m in a sundress, no bra and bare feet, to fucking collect.
Lord, please. Not now. Not like this. Not when I look like a housewife who lost a fight with the dishes.
I tilt my chin up, gathering the few remaining shreds of my dignity.
“Mr. Maksimov.” My voice comes out lower than I meant it to. A little raspy. I haven’t talked out loud all day.
His pupils widen. Just a little. I would never have seen it if I hadn’t been staring straight into his face like a star-struck fool. Was he… reacting to my voice?
A beat of silence stretches between us. He’s waiting for me to say something, or invite him in, probably, like a normal person.
But I don’t. I keep my arms crossed, my chin up, and I don’t move from the doorway, because if I move he’ll be inside my house, and once he’s inside, I have absolutely no fucking plan.
Adam Maksimov inclines his head. Just a fraction. Like he’s a fucking gentleman .
“May I come in?”
It’s not a request. His words make it sound like one. But the rest of him does not.
I should say no, slam the door, call… and who the fuck would I call? The cops, who Ray paid off for ten years? Jasmine, who’s twenty? My fucking dead father who sold me to Ray in the first place? The friends with whom I haven’t spoken in ten years, since I became Mrs. Mob Boss?
There is no one to ask for help.
I tighten my arms across my chest. The movement briefly catches his eyes, then they’re back on my face, and I feel that look in places I have no business feeling anything from this man.
So I step aside and he walks past me into my house and, Lord , he is so close.
Close enough that I can smell him. His expensive cologne.
Something cool and dark and a little smoky; under it, warm skin and clean cotton, and under that, just him.
Man, strong, dizzying… giving me the feeling I’m going to be smelling that for the rest of my life, and I have known the man for all of thirty seconds.
Good God.