She stared me down for a moment, and, when she realized she wasn’t going to win, she turned around in a huff. But I didn’t miss a hint of a smile on that pretty mouth of hers before she disappeared into her apartment.
She came back out ten minutes later in a sequined red gown that sparkled under the lights like a disco ball. A slit in the dress revealed her smooth tanned leg and six-inch heels. The sight sent a rush of heat to my groin.
She cocked a brow that dared me to say something.
The woman had no idea.
She thought I liked her.
I’d gone out of my way and followed her around for goddamn years just to look at her. I’d insulted her just to hear her smoky voice and witty response. And now, after my move to Seattle, it was hard to believe she was here in front of me. That I could reach out and touch her. That she would let me. It didn’t matter if she dressed like a 1970s drug lord’s wife or a die-hard Ariana Grande fan—nothing could make me forget her. What was worse was now, I had the memory of her looking up at me from her knees. That image had burned itself so deep beneath my skin I’d never get it out.
As much as I wanted to keep her, I knew I shouldn’t.
I couldn’t give her everything she’d ask of me.
I was going to take her to this wedding, finish my business with Sergei, and then return to Seattle. Nonetheless, every time I thought about leaving, my collar felt too tight, the air too thick to breathe. I didn’t know if I could physically do it.
“Did you bedazzle it yourself?” I asked, watching the elevator doors as we descended to the lobby.
She sighed and reached out to shove me or do something else ridiculous, but I grabbed her hand before she could make contact.
She blinked innocent eyes at me. “I was just going to fix your tie clip. It’s crooked.”
“No, it’s not,” I said confidently, without even looking.
She tried to pull her hand away, but I held onto it just because I could. Just because she was so fucking soft. I ran my thumb across her palm. She shivered and wrenched it away.
She did her makeup in the mirror on the way to the airstrip, while I pretended my blood didn’t thrum in approval at having her in my space, even doing such mundane, non-dick-related things like applying mascara.
A frown pulled on her lips when she took in the private jet. “Please, tell me this plane doesn’t belong to the Bureau.”
“This plane doesn’t belong to the Bureau.”
“Liar.”
As we boarded the jet, she muttered something about getting a rash.
The blonde flight attendant smiled and greeted Gianna, but it felt like an unnaturally long time for her to meet my gaze and nervously ask if she could hang up my jacket. She disappeared with my jacket in tow, while Gianna rolled her eyes.
“You don’t even notice the way women act in front of you, do you?”
“I notice everything you do, malyshka.”
She stilled and held my heavy stare for a moment before looking away. “Who’s paying for this private plane ride? My tax dollars?”
I took a seat on the white-leather couch, watching her move around and touch everything in sight. “You have to make an income to pay taxes.”
“I do. I’m an . . . entrepreneur.”
“You’re a gambler,” I corrected dryly.
“Same thing, really.”
“Why does your father want your attendance at this wedding?”
She picked up an FBI paperweight to examine it. “For nefarious reasons, I’m sure.”
“Elaborate.”