Page 36 of Turmoil's Target

“Family business then,” I murmur, half to myself. “Seems it’s rarely simple.”

“You have no idea,” he mutters darkly, scrubbing a hand over his face.

When he drops it, his expression has cleared somewhat, though a trace of strain still lingers around his eyes.

Abe’s arm tightens around me, hauling me closer until I’m practically in his lap. “Forget him,” he rumbles, nuzzling into my hair. “Nothing to worry that pretty head about.”

I hum noncommittally, unconvinced but willing to let it drop for now.

Clearly, there are more than a few skeletons in Abe’s closet when it comes to his dear old dad.

But that’s a conversation for another day.

For the moment, I’m content to let him hold me close, reveling in the solid heat of his body and the spicy scent of his cologne.

The rest of the world falls away as I burrow deeper into his embrace, his presence an anchor in the midst of the revelations and chaos.

Here, in the circle of his arms, I feel something I haven’t in a long time—cherished.

Protected.

Like nothing can touch me, as long as he’s by my side.

It’s a dangerous notion, one I shouldn’t indulge.

My life is too precarious, my secrets too deadly, to let anyone in, least of all a man like Abe.

But just for tonight, I’m going to allow myself the pleasure of pretending I could.

I’ll let myself imagine that this could be real, that we could have something deeper than the undeniable lust sparking between us.

Tomorrow I’ll come back to my senses, put on my armor, and focus on my mission.

Tonight I’m going to enjoy every stolen second in Abe’s orbit, propriety, and good sense be damned.

“So, you’re Russian then,” I muse aloud, tilting my head to study Abe’s striking features.

A wry smile tugs at his lips as he meets my gaze.

“Yeah, on my dad’s side. And half Guatemalan, courtesy of mymadre.” He chuckles, the sound a rich rumble that sends shivers down my spine.

Suddenly, it all makes sense—the warm olive tone of his skin, the exotic slant of his cheekbones.

He’s a perfect blend of his heritage, a bronze god carved from the finest marble.

I let my eyes drink him in, committing every detail to memory.

As we chat, I find myself drawn to Abe in a way I’ve never experienced before.

He’s charming and witty, with a sharp intellect that keeps me on my toes.

Our banter flows effortlessly, the chemistry between us undeniable.

“You know,” Abe muses, a mischievous glint in his eye, “my father was right about one thing. You are a spoiled British princess.”

I gasp in mock outrage, jabbing him in the side with my elbow. “Is that what he said? Well, excuse me, sir. I just have to correct you. I am a queen!” I retort primly, fighting back a grin.

Abe’s laughter fills the air, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “My apologies, Your Majesty,” he teases, dipping his head in a playful bow.

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