Innocent in Her Enemy’s Bed
CHAPTER EIGHT
LEANDERIDENTIFIEDHIMSELFas Ilona’s fiancé and the flustered building manager took him up to her floor.
“We’re still investigating how the intruder was allowed up,” the manager said in the elevator. “We have protocols around announcing visitors, but a new employee was in today.”
Convenient.
“He was only here a minute or two. Security came up immediately, but he was already gone down the fire stairs.”
“Have you reported it to the police?”
“Kyría Callas asked that they not be involved.”
“Involve them.” The doors opened and Leander stepped into a hallway where someone with a security badge snapped to attention. A resident shrank into their flat and closed the door.
One door stood open. Roses were spilled like bloodstains across the hardwood. Leander could see a lamp was overturned and a floor rug askew.
A grotesque premonition came over him. An echo of the day he’d found his father. He swallowed, stomach sour and skin turning clammy as he approached.
“Ilona,” he called out, voice thick and unsteady.
“She’s in there,” the security guard said, pointing to a closed door.
Leander knocked. “Ilona, it’s me. Let me in.”
There was a pause, then firm footsteps approached. A man of his own age let him in.
A whirling tornado of emotions pushed him inside. A dozen questions were on his tongue. Why did you call Feodor, not me? Why did you let Midas in? Why don’t you want the police involved?
He wanted answers and—
He froze, unable to breathe.
Midas had only been here a minute or two, but she looked...broken. She wasn’t crying, but her eyes were swollen and her face ravaged by tear tracks. There was a bin of crumpled tissues beside the sofa and a box of fresh ones on the coffee table. The light that usually radiated off her was nearly winked out. Her shoulders were hunched, her legs covered with a soft yellow blanket. Her hands were protectively folded over a tortoiseshell cat.
As he approached, her eyes swallowed her face and her mouth trembled. What kicked him in the stomach hardest was the glint of embarrassment in her eyes. She hated that he was seeing her like this.
“You said Feodor was coming.” She darted a look to the man who had let him in.
“I...” The man shrugged. “When he called back, he said to tell you he was coming. I didn’t know he meant someone else.”
“He shouldn’t have called you,” she said to Leander. “I’m fine. I just need a minute.” She dabbled a tissue into the corner of her eye and took a big breath, trying to rally herself.
The air in his lungs turned hot. Don’t, he wanted to say. He wanted to squeeze her hand and gather her up and whisper that everything would be okay now, but she looked so brittle, he was afraid she would disintegrate if he touched her.
He wanted to know what Midas had said to scare the hell out of her like this.
“Androu was with Feodor,” Leander said absently. “He called me when he realized what was going on.” Leander suspected the pair had been in bed. What his employee did in his off time was none of his business unless there was a possibility of professional compromise. In this case, it had definitely worked to his advantage. “I told Feodor I would take care of everything.”
“Can I get you coffee? Tea?” a woman asked.
“No. I’m taking Ilona home.”
“I don’t want to go in there.” Ilona’s voice was a whisper-thin husk of its usually sensual self, thick with a plea not to make her face it.
“I’ll take you to my home. You’ll be safe there.” He crouched beside her. “Do you want me to go pack your bag for you?”
“Would you?” She seemed anxious, as though it was the biggest ask in the world to walk across the hall. “There’s one in the closet that I keep packed for travel. And my phone. It’s on the charger. And my purse? I know I’m being a coward, but...” She bit her quivering lips and looked to the ceiling, trying to catch back the fresh tears that were welling.