Page 3 of Ruthless Love

I get a grip and grab a rubber band from my desk drawer, pulling it up my hand to my wrist. “Nothing that a cold shower and a rubber band won’t cure,” I deadpan, pulling the thin rubber between my index finger and thumb, then letting it go. Snap. “Everything’s fine.”

“I saw Dimitri leave. He certainly has the tongues wagging when he makes an entrance.”

Snap-snap. “That’s my man.”

Breathing in through my nose and letting out a long breath through my mouth, I pretend I haven’t just been mind-fucked by my on-again-off-again and fucking on-again fiancé. “Margot, you’re positively glowing. Taking the reins as acting CEO of a billion-dollar empire looks good on you.”

“I prefer taking it by the balls,” she says with such an air of sophistication, I can’t help but wish I could pull that off.

Despite a gene pool of politicians and puppet masters, I have a low give-a-fuck threshold that means I lead the life of a renowned society potty mouth. And if by some miracle I actually become Mrs. Dimitri Antonov, I’m half tempted to permanently switch my ring to my middle finger and sport it proudly.

“I have a favor to ask,” she says, looking pained. It’s probably the knot of regret in her stomach at having to owe me.

“Anything, sis,” I say, getting more and more comfortable with the idea by the minute.

It’s no secret among the family that her father, Everett Long, and my mom are picking wedding dates as we speak. Still, I notice Margot’s eyes narrow as she swallows whatever snappy comeback she has, making way for this favor she needs.

“It’s about Angelica and Roger.”

I grin, already knowing where this is going. Angelica Fairborn is our lead in-house counsel, and her husband, Roger, is her backup.

“Roger, soon to be Papa Fairborn, as Mama Fairborn is about to blow like a Jiffy Pop bag. So, how can I help? Lamaze coach? Catcher’s mitt? And before you say another word, if you’re about to tell me her water just broke, cleanup crew is a hard pass.”

“I want you to be our lead counsel, Evie.”

Speechless, I stare back. Sure, I’m an attorney. A top-of-my-class damn good one. On paper. And I work on contracts where a creative touch might be in order.

But to be the face of the in-house law department of Long Multinational? Even in the interim, I’m not sure I have the corporate law expertise or good judgment to refrain from inappropriate outbursts and swearing to convincingly pull it off.

“Margot, I’m flattered, but—”

“But I need you. We need you. We still have a full team behind you, but with two attorneys out at the same time, everyone will be pulling more than their weight as it is. Please consider it. And I know how you feel about a salary, but how about you nix the pro bono for once?”

I blink absently. “There’s nothing to consider. Of course, if you’ve lost your mind and want me to take this on, I’ll gladly loosen your straitjacket to shake hands. But don’t worry about the pay. We’re family, and I know you’re not pulling a paycheck either.”

“True. But I have other means of compensation.”

Margot has a reputation as a behind-the-scenes puppet master, so I can only imagine the finder’s fees she commands.

“So do I,” I say, flashing my ring at her.

By eleven that night, I’m beat. Dimitri’s mansion is always technically open to me, and I’m free to come and go as I please.

But my mind’s made up. The next time I go there, either I’m getting laid or I’m giving back the ring. What good is being engaged to a smoking-hot rich guy if he keeps shoving this ring between us like a goddamn chastity belt?

Horny and defeated, I drive home.

There are other reasons to keep my own residence in Dallas’s upscale Dennison Landing. For starters, it has a great view from every angle. A community lake graces my backyard and the golf course is in view. But it’s the kitchen window that always manages to catch my eye. Glimpses of the lickable six-foot-two Greek god across the street constantly make me wish I could ditch this ring already.

I know very little about him since he moved in. Like the rest of us, he tends to keep blissfully to himself. His light brown hair isn’t short, but a far cry from a hippie’s, and I want to work my fingers through every wavy strand. Maybe just to mess it up. He rocks a permanent scowl and, like my brother, looks like the type of guy who would go absolutely ape-shit if I did that even once.

He tends to come and go at bizarre hours, orders dinner via DoorDash at least twice a week, and spies on the neighbors when he thinks no one is looking, all while prancing around his house entirely naked. The distance keeps me from getting a closer look at several tattoos I’ve glimpsed on various delectable muscles, and I often wonder how many he has.

Maybe I should invest in some binoculars?

And then there are his visitors. All women. Usually very early in the morning, and always handing him an envelope, although it’s a fifty-fifty shot if they go inside. But sometimes they do. Not for long, but long enough. Leading me to the only possible conclusion.

I’m living across the street from a hooker.

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