Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 81947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
“Did you ever see him move artwork?”
With extreme restraint, I kept my gaze on him, instead of letting my eyes flicker to the closed bedroom door to my side.
Fuck.
Is that what this is about?
The art forgeries?
I swallowed as I shook my head. “I’m certain he just hired me a few hours a week to make the office look legitimate. You know what those men are like. They think having a pretty receptionist is a sign of success.”
The Russian’s gaze once more trailed slowly down my body.
My legs clenched as I wrapped my arms around my middle. “I’ve told you everything I know, which is nothing. Can you please leave?”
He ran his hand through his thick, black hair.
At the warehouse it was bound at his nape, but now the close-to-shoulder-length locks were loose, giving him the look of a wild beast.
“It’s not that simple, krasivaya. You are still a witness to tonight’s… unpleasantness.”
My eyes widened. I snatched the closest thing I could get my hands on: a decorative bowl with potpourri from the coffee table. Raising it high over my head, I exclaimed, “So you are a murderer!”
Before he could respond, I backed away. “You’re here to murder me!”
If I could just get to the front door, I’d at least have a fighting chance at escaping.
His gaze narrowed as he stretched out his arm. “Not one more step toward that door.”
I froze. “You don’t have to kill me. I don’t care if you killed Abakar. I didn’t even like the guy! And his guards were grabby-handed assholes.”
His head tilted to the side as he crossed his arms over his considerably wide chest. I could see the outline of muscles across his torso and over his biceps through the black thermal sleeves. The man was a wall of iron.
“Did his guards mess with you?”
My brow furrowed. I knew I shouldn’t have shot-gunned that first glass of wine. It had definitely gone straight to my head if I was thinking the man sent to kill me sounded jealous. “Nothing I couldn’t handle. Now, will you please leave?”
“No.”
“Please don’t kill me.”
He rubbed the place between his eyes. “Stop saying that. I’m not here to kill you.”
I lowered the bowl. “Are you saying you’re not a murderer?”
One eyebrow rose over his dark gaze. “I didn’t say that.”
I raised the bowl over my head again. “What the fuck!”
He spread his arms as he slowly circled the living room. “Strictly speaking, I’m not… not… a murderer, but I didn’t kill anyone tonight. At least not yet.”
Despite his warning, I followed suit, matching him step for step.
“You’re not helping.”
“Technically, I was there to kill him, after I learned who his art forger was, but someone beat me to it.”
I gestured wildly with the potpourri bowl, scattering dead rose petals and chips of scented wood across the floor at my feet. “What the hell am I supposed to say to that? Sorry someone stole your murdering thunder tonight?”
Through a haze of panic, my brain finally latched on to the rest of what he’d said.
After I learned who his art forger was.
This time my gaze did land on the closed bedroom door.
The Russian turned to look behind him at the door.
My breath seized.
Thankfully, he turned back to stare at me when he saw nothing threatening.
If only he knew…
He raised his palm. “I’m going to need you to calm down.”
My arm stretched out, pointing at him with the bowl. “Do not tell me to calm down. Never tell a woman to calm the fuck down. This is the perfect situation where I should not be fucking calm!”
He grinned. “You have a helluva dirty mouth on you, you know that, krasivaya?”
In full irrational rage mode, I gestured with the bowl again, raising and lowering my arm wildly. “And stop calling me that!”
I didn’t need a reminder that the sexy Russian murderer thought I was pretty.
It was actually very flattering in a twisted psychotic sort of way, and how he said it in that deep, guttural Russian accent made it sound so incredibly sensual.
No!
No.
Giving myself a mental shake, I raised my arm with the bowl. “Men who come to my apartment in the middle of the night to murder me do not get to call me beautiful!”
He leaned his hip against the back of my armchair as he crossed his arms. “Men? There’s more than just me? Should I be checking under your bed for competition?”
With a cry, I yelled, “This is not a joke!” before swiftly lowering my arm.
Unfortunately, I let go of the bowl.
It flew across the room and landed back on the coffee table.
Where it promptly knocked over the lit candle.
Igniting a disorganized stack of unopened mail.
Which then ignited the thick varnish on the antique table.
In barely over a second, the entire table was on fire.
A thick plume of black smoke rose to the ceiling… setting off the fire suppression system in my living room.