Page 30 of Perfect Stalker

As he turns to leave, a thought strikes me. “Marcus, wait.” He pauses, looking back at me. “What can you tell me about Alexei Morozov?”

His expression darkens. “Where did you hear that name?”

I swallow hard, realizing I may have overstepped. “I...overheard it. In Ivan’s office.”

He grits his teeth. “Ms. Graham, that’s not a name you want to be throwing around lightly. For your own safety, I suggest you forget you ever heard it.”

His words make me tremble. “Is he really that dangerous?”

“More than you know,” he says grimly. “Stay out of it, Jenny. For your own good.” With that, he leaves, closing the door behind him.

I slump in my chair, my mind reeling. What have I gotten myself into?

The rest of the day passes in a blur. I go through the motions of my work, but my thoughts keep drifting back to Ivan and the kiss we shared. By the time five o’clock rolls around, I’m a bundle of nerves.

I gather my things, debating whether I should stop by Ivan’s office before I leave. In the end, cowardice wins out. I’ll deal with the fallout at his place.

As I step out of the elevator into the parking garage to meet the SUV my guards are driving, I shiver. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched. I remind myself Andre and Daniil are lurking somewhere, which explains the sensation, but I’m still on edge.

I quicken my pace as a hand clamps down on my shoulder. I whirl around, my heart in my throat.

Ivan stands before me, his eyes blazing with an intensity that takes my breath away. “Running away, Jenny?”

“I... no, I was just...” I stammer, unable to form a coherent thought with him so close.

He backs me against a car, caging me in with his arms. “We need to talk about what happened in my office.”

I swallow hard, acutely aware of every inch of space between us. “Do we? It was just a kiss, Ivan. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

His eyes narrow. “You and I both know that’s not true.”

Before I can respond, his lips crash down on mine. The kiss is even more explosive than the first, filled with pent-up desire and unspoken emotions. I melt into him, all thoughts of resistance evaporating.

When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing heavily. He rests his forehead against mine, his eyes closed. “Let me show you how much it means.”

With a whimper, I pull away. “I can’t. I can’t give in to this. You’re my stalker, Ivan.” Never mind I feel safer with him than I ever have with any previous boyfriend. “It’s a matter of principle.”

I expect him to be angry, but he just smiles. “We’ll see how long your principles last in the face of this need,kotik.” Looking at ease, he says, “Are you ready to go home?”

I nod dumbly, not sure how to respond, or what I should be thinking or feeling right now.

CHAPTER 12

IVAN

The glass and steel elevator doors slide open on the thirty-second floor in the building house “Markov Entertainment” at six a.m. sharp the next morning. My footsteps resonate against marble while I stride through the empty hallway toward my office.

Inside, I settle into my leather chair, the familiar creak a counterpoint to the gentle whir of computer fans kicking on. Steam rises from my black coffee, the rich Colombian roast filling my nostrils while I pull up the overnight security briefings.

I spend the next two hours scrolling through report after report that has nothing to do with “Markov Entertainment”—shipment manifests, surveillance logs, and updates from foot soldiers. The FBI has a new operative they’ve inserted into one of my operations, and I relay to watch him but leave him unharmed. Feed him just enough that the FBI thinks they have a lead but not enough to give him access to any proof.

This is all reasonably routine, but I’m uneasy. It’s not because Jenny refused to let me take her to bed last night. That’s inevitable, and I can be patient. There’s something else making me uneasy, though I haven’t figured out what yet. The knot in my stomach tightens with each passing minute.

“Something’s off,” I mutter, tilting back my chair. Years of instinct scream danger, but I can’t pin down why.

Before I can figure it out, the heavy oak door flies open with enough force to rattle the pictures on the wall. Marcus bursts in, his tactical boots leaving scuff marks on the pristine floor. His normally composed features are twisted with urgency, and a thin sheen of sweat glistens on his forehead. “Ivan.” His voice is clipped, tense. “We’ve got trouble. Big trouble.”

I’m already rising, my palms flat against the mahogany desk. “Talk to me.”

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