Ruthless Rival (Cruel Castaways 1)

I’m not above anything when it comes to you.

Christian: We had a deal.

Arya: I don’t remember signing any paperwork.

I waltzed back over to my front door; I needed to be in court in twenty minutes. In fact, it was time for me to personally cross-examine one of Conrad’s witnesses. Now was not the time to chase skirts.

Christian: What happened?

Arya: I just don’t see the point in spending every evening of the week with you when it’s going to be over in a few days, anyway.

Christian: Let’s talk.

I used the time it took her to answer to call an Uber. Just in case, I texted Claire to make up a good excuse in case I was going to run late. Judge Lopez was a ballbuster, even if he did like my golf moves.

Arya: What about?

The weather. What did she think?

Christian: I’ll come to your place at six tonight.

Arya: No. Jillian can’t see you.

Again with this bullshit. I didn’t have the heart to tell her Riggs and Arsène were pretty much in the know about every orgasm we had shared between the sheets—or in my kitchen, my shower, my Jacuzzi, or her reading nook—since we’d started hooking up. I was tired of being a secret, even if I was the very asshole who had suggested it in the first place.

And for a good reason too.

Christian: I take it you don’t want your book back.

Arya: I’ll sue you.

Christian: I know a good lawyer.

Arya: There’s a special place in hell reserved for people like you.

Christian: Heard lawyers get lava-view condos. Be nice and I just might let you room with me in the afterlife. When can I expect you?

Arya: Seven.

Christian: Don’t be late.

But of course she was.

Late, that was.

Arya arrived at 7:23, not a trace of regret or embarrassment in her stony face. As I buzzed her up, I had to remind myself that she had every reason to want to cut ties with me. I was the painful reminder of everything she’d lost.

She walked in, tossing her bag onto the black leather couch, ignoring the dinner for two I’d made, which was sitting in the breakfast nook, getting cold.

“You wanted to talk?” She didn’t bother toeing off her Jimmy Choos, which was suspect, since that was the first thing Arya did when she walked into my apartment after a long day.

“I made dinner.” I headed over to the kitchen and grabbed two glasses of merlot. I handed her one. She hesitated before taking it. Staying long wasn’t in her plans.

“You did.” Her eyes traveled over my shoulder. “Sorry I was late. I had a call with a client in California. They were in no hurry to hang up.”

“Not a problem. Cold steak has always been my favorite. Mind taking it to the kitchen?”

I suppose this was my version of eating humble pie. I didn’t like the taste of it at all. I’d never chased a woman in my life and wasn’t planning to make an exception for Arya, but I couldn’t accept the idea that this was going to be over in four days. I needed more time. A few more months of an illicit affair weren’t going to kill anyone. Other than, perhaps, my remaining working brain cells. I wasn’t in the business of thinking straight whenever I was with this woman.

“You know what? I’d rather do this here, if you don’t mind.” She settled on the armrest of my black leather couch, cross-legged, holding her glass from the stem. I wanted to strangle myself for getting into this situation. All of this could have been prevented if I’d resisted the urge to meet Amanda Gispen.

Or if I’d simply passed the case along to someone who didn’t have a hard-on for the Roths.

Or if I hadn’t bet Arya, pushing an already defiant woman to the edge.

Or if I hadn’t seduced her.

Or if she hadn’t seduced me.

Or if I had simply told her the truth. That I, Nicholai Ivanov, was alive, (mostly) well, and (infuriatingly) obsessed with getting into her pencil skirt.

But I didn’t think Nicholai deserved a girl like Arya, let alone the woman she’d become.

“We’re leaving,” I said, standing up abruptly. Arya followed me with her eyes, a little confused. It came back to me now. Teenage Arya. Small and brazen and fiercely independent. All she’d ever wanted was to be seen. And I’d put her through hell. First her father’s trial, which still hadn’t come to an end, then all these games. The wagers. The rules. She wanted to walk out of this with the remainder of her pride. My only chance to stop her was to give up my own vanity.

“Where to?” She leaned to put her wineglass on my coffee table.

“It’s a surprise.” I grabbed my jacket. It was clear to me where I was taking her. Only one place would do. I texted Traurig while we took the elevator down. Traurig had a limo and a personal driver on call twenty-four seven. These days his teenybopper daughter and her Belieber friends were the main users of this unpopular luxury, but he owed me a favor or six.