Page 43 of Seduction (Wicked Vows)

She groans and rolls her eyes. “He’s such a goody goody, it makes me sick. When Morozov asked me to explain why I’d chosen a certain protocol, Jake droned on and on about the stupid research he did about decontamination procedures and his experience with the Harvard team. He spent extra hours memorizing protocols. And when Morozov asked me to select the team members based on strengths and weaknesses, Jake made some snide comment about my lack of upper body strength as a woman and how he or Maxim would be better suited for anything requiring physical exertion.”

She snorts, but I’m not the slightest bit amused.

“Did he, now?” I ask curiously. I empty my water bottle and crush it in my fist, wishing it was the American’s scrawny little suck-up neck.

“Markov,” she says, sobering. “You cannot intervene. It could put everything at risk.”

Not everything.

“Please,” she pleads. She stifles a groan. “God, why did I tell you anything?”

“Because it’s my job to protect you, and I asked.” I lean over and tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “And I’m your husband.”

I know it’s only fake. I know we’re only pretending, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like how it feels saying that. Vera’s two telltale signs—the flush of her cheeks and the way she bites her lip—tell me she’s no different. She likes it, too.

“Remember, I asked you to trust me, Vera.” I reach for her hand and bring it to my mouth so I can kiss her knuckles. Ah. There’s that lip between her teeth again. My cock stirs.

“When do we have to leave to meet with my father? I have to finish this demonstration before we go.”

I check my phone and frown. “Dammit. He’s moved the time up. We have two hours.”

“Two hours!” She leaps from the table. “I can’t do that!”

Vera needs a little time to shift from one thing to the next, likely due to the intensity of her focus. I give her a look. She can and will do this, even if she doesn’t want to. “In your experience, is your father amenable to you saying you can’t meet his demands?” I ask, knowing the answer before she tells me.

With a groan, she shakes her head. “Point made. Fine, alright. I can get ready, but I have to finish up what I’m working on and tell them I need to leave.”

Two hours later, we’re getting ready to go and meeting the car her father has sent to pick us up. While she was getting ready, I brushed up on the facts I know about Markov, in case her father asks.

Vera looks like a nervous wreck. She’s biting her lip nonstop, fidgeting, tapping her foot. I even find her biting a nail, something she never does.

“Why so nervous?” I ask. I open the door to the car and confirm the directions to Zoloty Kupol, or “Golden Dome,” a renowned restaurant known for its golden accents and panoramic views of the city’s skyline, including the famous domes, in the heart of Moscow town. It’s a place only for the elite, and reservations are required months in advance.

“It’s my father,” she says simply. “Our relationship is complicated.”

I shut the door and make sure her seatbelt’s fastened. She doesn’t even protest as I check the locks. Good. She’s catching on.

“Yes. It’s your father. He’ll be self-serving and self-focused as always, only wants to hear what will make him look good, and is here more for show than to actually visit with either of us.” I tip my head to the side. “Yes?”

“Yes,” she sighs. “Did you look this place up? Have you been there before?”

I shake my head. “I looked at the specs and blueprints so I know where the exits are, but I haven’t been there, no.”

I also know the best place for cell reception and where we can sit where the lighting is dim, mitigating any possibility of anyone identifying me.

“It’s,” she makes air quotes, “‘unmatched in opulence and sophistication, and well-known for its unparalleled fusion of traditional and contemporary Russian cuisine, culinary techniques, and an outstanding wine menu that rivals the best in the world.” Rolling her eyes, she paraphrases. “In regular person speak, that means we’ll pay ten times what we’d pay a street vendor for something that’s half the size and healthier, so it won’t taste anywhere near as good.”

I know her a bit better by now, and I happen to know that while Vera loves good food, she is more focused on her books and studies than anything. She’d just as soon eat something from the school dining hall to get back to work. It isn’t the uppity food that’s concerning her.

“What’s really bothering you?”

Our driver picks up speed, heading into the city. She looks at him, then me, and jerks her chin at my phone. She doesn’t want to be overheard.

Us. It’s us that’s worrying me. We have… energy together. What if he picks up on it?

How soon you forget that I can feign indifference and coolness quite well.

When she still doesn’t look convinced, I try again.

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