CHAPTER 7
SLOANE
"I'm going to have bodyguards?" My voice sounds higher than I intended. "Are you kidding?"
Harper sighs, setting the stack of clean towels she just brought for my room on the bed. The dim light of the bedside lamps casts soft shadows across her face, softening the edges of an expression that tells me this isn't negotiable.
"I'm sorry, I should have mentioned it sooner," she says, sitting on the edge of the mattress. "Every time you leave the casino, you'll have two men with you."
I drop into the chair in front of the vanity, feeling my plan getting more complicated by the second. How am I going to investigate with two gorillas following me everywhere?
"Why?" I ask, trying to make it sound like an innocent question and not the interrogation of someone hiding something. "Do you have them too?"
Harper nods, distractedly stroking her rounded belly.
"Of course. It's standard for family and... people close to us."
"Harper, this is absurd," I protest, standing up abruptly. "I don't need babysitters. I know how to take care of myself. I've lived in the worst neighborhoods in Brooklyn, for God's sake."
"It's not negotiable, Sloane." Her voice is soft but firm. "Alexei is an extremely wealthy man. That makes us potential targets for kidnapping, extortion..."
"Do you hear yourself?" I interrupt. "Kidnapping? What kind of business does your husband have, exactly?"
An awkward silence settles between us. Harper looks at me with that expression I know too well: she's carefully choosing her words.
"It's a casino, Sloane," she replies finally. "In Las Vegas. There are millions passing through his hands every day. It's not that far-fetched."
I watch her closely, looking for signs that she's lying, that she's scared. But all I see is the quiet determination of a woman who has completely accepted her new reality.
"This is crazy," I murmur, running my hands through my hair. "I'm not going to have two goons following me to college, to the coffee shop... It's not negotiable."
"I'm not the one you have to negotiate this with," Harper says with a resigned sigh. "And honestly, I'm sorry, but I agree with Alexei. It's for your safety."
"Who do I have to talk to then? Your husband?" I ask, feeling frustration rise inside me.
Harper shakes her head.
"With Dimitri. He's... the head of security."
The name drops like a stone in my stomach.
"Dimitri? The same guy who practically ran away when he saw us at the gym? The one who hasn't had the decency to say hello to me in two days?"
"I know you don't... like him," Harper says cautiously. "But he's good at what he does. The best, according to Alexei."
"Like him?" I repeat with a dry laugh. "Of course I don't like him, he's a total idiot!"
"Look, we can talk to him tomorrow," Harper suggests, moving carefully given her pregnancy. "It's late and he's probably sleeping, and you have your first day of classes tomorrow. You need to rest."
"Where does he live?" I ask abruptly.
Harper looks at me with surprise.
"What?"
"Dimitri," I insist. "Where does he live? If he wants to assign me babysitters, he's going to have to tell me to my face."
"Sloane, I don't think this is the time..."
"Where, Harper?"
She sighs, defeated.
"One floor down. The whole floor is his. His place is a twin of ours."
Without thinking twice, I head for the door.
"Sloane, for God's sake," Harper protests. "It's almost eleven at night. And you're in your pajamas."
I look down. Sure enough, I'm wearing short cotton shorts and a worn tank top, my usual sleepwear. But indignation weighs more than common sense.
"I don't care."
"At least put something on over that," she pleads, tossing me a silk robe hanging from the closet.
I catch it midair, but let it drop onto the bed. I'm too pissed off to think about my appearance.
"I'll be back soon," I say, walking out the door before she can protest further.
The building's hallway screams opulence, with carpet that muffles my barefoot steps. I take the private elevator, pressing the button for one level down.
As I descend, the initial adrenaline begins to mix with something else. Nerves? Maybe. Anticipation? Absolutely not. The only thing I feel for Dimitri Morozov is irritation. Pure and simple irritation.
Or at least that's what I tell myself as the elevator doors slide open.
The hallway on this floor is darker, with indirect lighting casting dramatic shadows. I walk toward the only door in the vestibule.
The front door is dark wood with a discreet security panel beside it. There's no name, but the door exudes the same arrogant presence as its owner.
Without giving myself time to stop and reconsider what I'm doing, I raise my fist and knock. Three times. Hard. When there's no immediate answer, I locate the doorbell and press it repeatedly. Once. Twice. Three times.
I keep it pressed, the shrill sound reverberating through the closed door.
Come on. I know you're in there.
Just as I'm about to knock again, the door swings open.
And the air leaves my lungs.
Dimitri Morozov stands before me, his face shadowed by a mix of surprise and irritation. But it's not his expression that paralyzes me.
It's that he's practically naked.
His torso—that same torso I briefly saw at the gym—is completely exposed, every muscle defined under the dim hallway light.
Intricate tattoos cover his shoulders and descend down his arms and chest until they disappear beneath the waistband of his jeans.
Jeans that, I realize with a spike of heat, are completely unbuttoned, revealing a fine line of dark hair that trails down from his navel and disappears under the fabric.
My eyes involuntarily travel over his body, registering details as if my brain wanted to brand them into memory: the scar cutting across his right side; another smaller one over his collarbone; the tattoo of what looks like a Russian Orthodox church on his left pec.
His skin radiates an almost palpable heat, and I catch the scent coming off him: a mix of expensive soap, whiskey, and something more primal, purely masculine.
When I finally manage to lift my gaze to his face, I find his gray eyes watching me with an intensity that sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the hallway chill.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" His voice is a low, rough growl, with that Russian accent more pronounced than his brother's.
I open my mouth to answer, but for the first time in my life, the words refuse to come out. My brain seems to have short-circuited, all my perfectly articulated complaints now lost in the void.
Because, damn it, how am I supposed to argue about bodyguards when my whole body is responding to his presence like a perfectly tuned instrument?