Page 20 of Sweet Animosity

Despite his warning, I followed suit, matching him step for step.

“You’re not helping.”

“Technically, I was there to kill him, after I learned who his art forger was, but someone beat me to it.”

I gestured wildly with the potpourri bowl, scattering dead rose petals and chips of scented wood across the floor at my feet. “What the hell am I supposed to say to that? Sorry someone stole your murdering thunder tonight?”

Through a haze of panic, my brain finally latched on to the rest of what he’d said.

After I learned who his art forger was.

This time my gaze did land on the closed bedroom door.

The Russian turned to look behind him at the door.

My breath seized.

Thankfully, he turned back to stare at me when he saw nothing threatening.

If only he knew…

He raised his palm. “I’m going to need you to calm down.”

My arm stretched out, pointing at him with the bowl. “Do not tell me to calm down. Never tell a woman to calm the fuck down. This is the perfect situation where I should not be fucking calm!”

He grinned. “You have a helluva dirty mouth on you, you know that, krasivaya?”

In full irrational rage mode, I gestured with the bowl again, raising and lowering my arm wildly. “And stop calling me that!”

I didn’t need a reminder that the sexy Russian murderer thought I was pretty.

It was actually very flattering in a twisted psychotic sort of way, and how he said it in that deep, guttural Russian accent made it sound so incredibly sensual.

No!

No.

Giving myself a mental shake, I raised my arm with the bowl. “Men who come to my apartment in the middle of the night to murder me do not get to call me beautiful!”

He leaned his hip against the back of my armchair as he crossed his arms. “Men? There’s more than just me? Should I be checking under your bed for competition?”

With a cry, I yelled, “This is not a joke!” before swiftly lowering my arm.

Unfortunately, I let go of the bowl.

It flew across the room and landed back on the coffee table.

Where it promptly knocked over the lit candle.

Igniting a disorganized stack of unopened mail.

Which then ignited the thick varnish on the antique table.

In barely over a second, the entire table was on fire.

A thick plume of black smoke rose to the ceiling… setting off the fire suppression system in my living room.

If I hadn’t had numerous misadventures in the kitchen, I would have been overjoyed, thinking the fire alarm would summon the fire and police, saving me.

---