Ruslan #2
Confusion flickers across her face then. She expected denial, excuses. Most men perform civility after frightening women. I never saw the point.
The silence stretches briefly between us while steam curls upward from our coffee cups. Then Emma says quietly, “You’re being weirdly nice right now.”
My brows lift slightly. “I’m not a complete monster.”
“You bought me breakfast after basically kidnapping me.”
“I bought you coffee. You don’t seem interested in the pastries.”
“That’s not the point.”
I lean back in my chair, studying her flushed face and tangled curls still messy from running through downtown Santa Barbara. “You continue sounding surprised that I know how to behave like a gentleman. Do you forget where we first met? Who I am?”
Emma’s eyes narrow again, sharp, reiterating what I’ve slowly come to believe: she isn’t just a tourist. Not just some girl walking the Californian coast.
“I don’t think you’re who you claim to be. And you threatened me at a bus station.”
“Yet I still pulled your chair out before you sat down.”
She stares at me for a second, head tipped to the side. Then, despite everything, her lips twitch.
I drag my gaze toward the window briefly, calming myself before I lose patience again—or my composure.
The old instincts keep prowling beneath my skin today, sharp and restless.
I do not like how easily Emma drags them out of me, or how badly I want to lean forward and capture that hot mouth with mine.
Finally I look back at her.
“Enough games,” I say quietly. “Tell me about Andrei. How do you know him? Why did it look like a slap in the face when you saw him on television?”
Every trace of humor disappears from her face.
There it is.
The wound.
Emma lowers her eyes to the foam swirling in her cappuccino. For a moment I almost think she’ll lie again. Then she takes a deep breath.
“I dated him.”
There’s a slight hesitation before the statement. That’s what I should be focusing on. Instead, a searing rage travels up my spine, down my arms, to my fingertips. I set down my coffee and flex my hands.
“For how long?”
“Not long. A few months.” Those eyes flick up again. “Six.”
My jaw tightens.
“Then,” Emma continues bitterly, “he dumped me. So you can imagine that it was a bit of a… shock to find out he was engaged so soon.”
I study her quietly. Pain lives deep there. Not fresh heartbreak exactly—can you fall in love with someone in six months? I doubt it. No, Emma’s frown is tinted with humiliation. I’m willing to bet she’s less devastated that Andrei moved on and more devastated that she misjudged him completely.
That I understand intimately.
“How do you know him?” she asks abruptly, pushing her half-finished coffee away. She still hasn’t eaten the pastries, but she should. I see the way her hand goes to her belly, likely trying to calm a growl. Hard work, running from a Pakhan.
“I can’t tell you that.”
Her eyes narrow. “But you’re clearly a…”
A slow smile crawls across my lips when she doesn’t finish the sentence. Leaning back, my chest flexes as I cross my arms. “A what, Emma? A criminal?”
She flushes slightly. “I wasn’t going to say that.”
“You were thinking it.”
“…Yes.”
A genuine laugh escapes me this time, low and dark enough that she shifts in her seat.
“Good,” I say softly. “You should.”
Emma goes very still at that. Smart girl.
But beneath the curiosity about how exactly Emma has tumbled into my life, my mind is already moving elsewhere. Pieces slide into place one by one.
This gorgeous woman, who my idiot brother let go without a second thought, might just be my way back home.
Opportunity indeed.
I tap my thumb once against the porcelain coffee cup before making the decision completely. She’s finally picked up a pastry, a cream and raspberry Danish. When her teeth bite into it, the dough flakes up against her supple lips. I can’t look away.
“You’re staying with me. I need you.”
Emma blinks. “What?” Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, and I stare, trying to ignore the rise of heat in my loins.
Need. It’s not what I meant, but I can’t deny it, either.
“You heard me.”
She lets the pastry fall to her plate. “Absolutely not.”
“Yes.”
“What can you possibly…? I told you, we dated, that’s it—”
“Trust me, Emma.” A purr, a promise. I see her shiver at the words. “You don’t really have another choice; you’ll help me put an end to Andrei Cheney. You’ll stay in my home until we reach an agreement, an understanding. I have two rules: don’t go near my niece, Kate. And don’t run.”
Anger flashes across her face. “I’m not your prisoner.”
“My other prisoners should be so lucky,” I murmur, letting my gaze drag from her mouth to her throat, to the sliver of a collarbone still showing. A flush colors her chest.
“That’s… not reassuring.”
Leaning forward, I reach out and swipe a bit of raspberry jam from the corner of her mouth. Emma holds her breath. Slowly, eyes locked on hers, I put my thumb in my mouth and suck.
“I haven’t decided who you are to me yet, Emma Pierce, but I’m beginning to think you may be a means to an end. You’re lying to me about something; I’ll let you keep that secret. For now. But I think we both know that if you run again, I won’t be so kind the next time I catch you.”
Tomorrow I will decide whether Emma Pierce is a threat, a liability, or something infinitely more useful.
Tomorrow we will discuss her options.
But today?
Today I intend to keep her exactly where I can see her.