Chapter 1 #2
Of course. The Eclipse was one of Dubai’s newest jewels, a glass monolith overlooking the marina, half hotel, half luxury residences. It was the kind of place where the parking garage smelled like new leather and the concierge spoke six languages.
“Let me guess.” I tapped his shoulder with my index finger. “The penthouse?”
He smiled. “Naturally.”
I pretended to think about it. “You know, I barely know you,” I mused.
“That’s what makes it interesting.”
“Or foolish.”
“Life’s better when you don’t always think about the consequences of which one it is.” He took a step back and extended his hand again. “Come on, Kara-with-a-K.”
For a long heartbeat, I considered saying no, but curiosity won out and I slipped my hand into his.
Outside, the night air was warm, laced with the scent of the sea. A sleek black Bentley waited at the curb, engine humming softly like a satisfied cat. The driver stepped forward, opening the rear door without a word.
Roman guided me into the vehicle. The seats were dark gray leather, the air cool and faintly perfumed. When the door closed, the rest of the world disappeared, and the city’s noise reduced to a distant whisper.
He sat beside me, close enough that the heat of him brushed against my bare arm. The car eased forward, gliding through the glittering veins of the city. Outside, skyscrapers shimmered against the dark water.
He poured two glasses of an amber liquid from a crystal decanter built into the console. “To dangerous company,” he said, offering me one.
I took it, the glass cool in my fingers. “You make that sound like a compliment.”
“It is.”
The Bentley’s engine purred, and the city lights strobed across his face, gold, blue, then shadow again. I watched him for a long moment, the strong line of his jaw, the faint scar near his temple that the dossier hadn’t mentioned. Real things like that never made it into files.
He caught me staring and smiled, more than a little sure of himself. “You still thinking about whether this is a good idea?”
“Definitely.”
“And?”
“I’ll let you know when it’s too late to turn back.”
His laugh filled the car, low and genuine. “Something tells me, Kara,” he whispered, leaning close enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath against my throat, “it already is.”
I smiled, looking out the window as the Bentley curved along the marina road, the city unfolding in kaleidoscopic light. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was too late.
But then again, sometimes danger was exactly the point.
The elevator rose in perfect silence, its glass walls reflecting the sprawl of Dubai below, light against light, like the city had forgotten what darkness was.
My reflection shimmered beside his, ghostly over the skyline.
Roman stood with one hand in his pocket, the other holding a tumbler of scotch he hadn’t touched.
He watched the city like it belonged to him.
Maybe it did.
He was the kind of man who seemed to claim space without effort, almost like gravity bent slightly toward him.
Dark hair, cut close at the sides but longer on top, swept back with a sense of careless effort that was probably intentional.
Eyes the color of glacier melt—pale blue with the faintest ring of silver—cool, intelligent, and far too observant.
His jaw was clean, strong, the kind that somehow spoke of both discipline and indulgence.
The first few buttons of his shirt were undone, just enough to reveal the top of his chest, a hint of dark chest hair rising above the fabric and the edge of a gold chain that wasn’t for show.
He looked like money and sin all wrapped into one. I knew enough about him to know that he wasn’t the kind of man who chased. Instead, he waited for the world to come to him.
Just like I did.
When the elevator doors opened, the air changed.
It was cooler, scented faintly with cedar and a darker aroma, almost like campfire smoke.
The penthouse spread before us, a cathedral of glass and shadow.
The view stole the breath from my lungs.
Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the marina far below, where yachts glimmered like pearls in the dark water.
The city stretched beyond, glittering and pulsing with life and obscene wealth.
Inside, the space was sleek, masculine, all charcoal and marble.
Everything was expensive without trying too hard.
A black grand piano stood near the window, its surface gleaming like spilled ink.
Art lined the walls, some modern and others abstract, the kind of pieces that cost six figures just to sit there on the wall and look unbothered.
“A minimalist,” I said finally, turning in a slow circle.
“I like things uncomplicated,” he replied, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it across the back of a chair. “Too many details ruin things.”
I smiled faintly. “So says the man with a Picasso hanging above his fireplace.”
“Exceptions prove the rule.”
He put down his glass from the car, poured two fresh drinks from a crystal decanter on a coffee table, and handed me one.
His fingers brushed mine, just enough to draw another pulse of heat through me.
I took a sip, letting the scotch burn its way down.
It was smooth, peaty, and most likely incredibly expensive.
“GlenDronach?” I guessed.
His mouth curved. “You know your whiskey.”
“I know my vices.”
He studied me for a long moment. “And which one am I?”
“I’ll let you know when I decide whether you’re worth the hangover.”
That earned me a laugh, quiet and genuine. He leaned against the glass wall, the city burning beneath him. The soft lighting turned his eyes into shards of ice, bright and unreadable.
“You’re different from the usual company I keep,” he said.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It was.” He paused. “Most people want something from me.”
“And you think I don’t?”
“I think you might want something you haven’t revealed yet.”
The words landed too close to the truth, and I hated that he could see it. I walked toward the piano, trailing my fingertips along its smooth surface. “Maybe I just like beautiful things,” I said softly.
“Then you came to the right place.”
I turned back to him, one brow lifting. “You always this sure of yourself?”
“Yes.”
He moved toward me slowly, albeit with obviously deliberate intent. When he stopped in front of me, he was close enough that I could see the faint shadow of stubble across his jaw.
“Most men,” I commented quietly, “would already have made their move by now.”
His smile was the kind that could ruin people. “Most men mistake movement for power.”
“And you don’t?”
“I know power doesn’t chase. It waits.”
“Confident. Maybe even cocky,” I murmured.
“Russian,” he corrected with a smirk, that faint trace of accent curling through the word.
The sound of it slid down my spine. “So that’s your secret,” I smiled. “You hide behind mystery and vodka.”
“Sometimes truth works better. No need to hide at all, then.” He tilted his head. “Would you like to see the terrace?”
“I think you just want to show off a little.”
That earned me another faint smile. He gestured toward a set of sliding glass doors.
We stepped out onto the terrace, the city stretching out in every direction, the Burj Khalifa piercing the sky to the east, the water shimmering to the west. The lights looked like spilled diamonds, rubies, and sapphires scattered across the surface of the sea.
Roman stood beside me, hands in his pockets, watching the view. “Do you ever get tired of pretending?” he asked suddenly.
The question caught me off guard. “Pretending what?”
“That you don’t already know what you want.”
I turned my head toward him. “You think you do?”
His gaze met mine, steady and calm. “I think you’re not here for scotch or conversation.”
I let a smile edge at the corners of my lips, sharp enough to cut. “Maybe I’m here to see if the rumors are true.”
“What rumors?”
“That Roman Markov can make anyone forget who they are for a night.”
He chuckled, the sound low in his throat. “That’s flattering. Maybe a bit daring, too.”
“I like daring,” I said with a wink.
“I know.” He took a step closer, so close that his shadow merged with mine on the terrace floor. His voice softened. “You don’t strike me as someone who lets go easily, Kara.”
“Maybe I haven’t met anyone worth letting go for.”
His hand came up, brushing a strand of hair from my face. The touch was almost reverent, but his eyes held that same quiet challenge. I could feel my pulse hammering beneath my skin, the line between control and surrender blurring fast.
He leaned in, his breath warm against my ear. “You shouldn’t play with fire if you’re afraid of the burn.”
I turned my head slightly, just enough to whisper back, “Who says I’m afraid?”
His smile was slow, dark, and utterly devastating. “I didn’t think so.”
The city glittered around us while I finished my drink, feeling the heat of it bloom low in my stomach. Roman’s eyes lingered on my mouth, his voice barely a murmur when he spoke again.
“Stay awhile,” he said. “You’re not someone who runs, are you?”
“I’m not.”
I walked past him back inside, the echo of my heels trailing through the penthouse.
Then I offered him my glass, meeting his eyes. “One more drink,” I said. “Then I go.”
He nodded, that faint knowing smile still on his lips. “Of course.”
We both knew I was lying.