Page 3 of Beautiful Cruelty

"And I suppose you're just here to help? Out of the goodness of your heart?"

"I'm here because I see potential." His eyes lock onto mine. "In a lot of things."

"Does that line usually work for you?" I whisper as heat creeps up my neck.

"I don't know. Does pretending to hate me usually work for you?"

"Who says I'm pretending?"

"The fact that you're still talking to me." He pushes off the counter, stepping closer. "Most people who actually hate me can't wait to get away."

His scent teases at my nose, stronger than before, and I fight the urge to lean forward.

"Maybe I just enjoy arguing."

"Or maybe." His smile widens. "You just enjoy me."

I snort, but it comes out less dismissive than I'd like. "Wow. Your ego must be even bigger than your portfolio."

"And just how certain are you of my portfolio size?"

"From the bespoke suit, to that understated but expensive watch, to the way you walk around acting like you own the world." I pause for a moment. "I know what you are."

"And what am I?"

"An enemy."

I don't know why I chose those words. Maybe it's to hide the quiver in my voice now that he's so close to me. Maybe it's because of the blood rushing at my ears. Maybe it’s because he's the only outlet that I can focus all of my heartbreak and frustration at.

Or maybe…

No! Don't be ridiculous.I fight back the involuntary shudder, but the way his storm-gray eyes seem to glint tells me that he's missed nothing.

"Is that what you think we are,zvyozdochka?" He's definitely in my space now, and his heady scent is doing terrible, wicked things to my imagination. Like his suit, it must be bespoke. "Enemies?"

"We're nothing." I take a step back, bumping into the rack behind me. "And we're going to stay nothing. Don’t pretend like you know anything about me.”

"I know you desperately want the world to acknowledge you for the talent that you clearly have." He nods toward my feet. "I know you've been crying from the way your mascara is slightly smudged at the corner of your eye. I know you're a fighter because instead of drinking wine and deleting photos like a normal person, you're standing right here, right now, fighting for a dry cleaner—" He checks his watch again. "—Eleven hours and twenty-eight minutes after your engagement ended. But who's counting?"

I jut my chin out at him. "Not me."

"Not you." He smiles, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a business card, offering it to me. "In case you want to continue not counting at Vorobyov's."

Everything about it screams money and power. From the thick cardstock, the embossed lettering, and even to the way he holds it out—like he's used to people scrambling to take things from him.

I should walk away.

I should focus on putting my life back together, not getting tangled up with a dangerously handsome stranger. A stranger that I have no right feeling anything for other than contempt for trying to buy out Mrs. Klossner’s dry cleaner.

Whatever I should be doing, it’s not taking that damn card.

But somehow, my hand reaches out, and I take it. His smile curves up ever so slightly, and both of us know that he just won.

"I'll see you there,zvyozdochka," he says as he grabs his dry cleaning off the counter. "One more thing."

"What?" I do my best to put some bite into my voice.

"Try coconut oil instead of olive. Works better on platinum."

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