Page 1 of Lethal Legacy

1

LUCIA

“Stevanovsky at twelve o’clock.” Abby tilts her chin at the café door and gives me a sly wink. “And he looks pissed.”

“So what else is new?” I bury my head in the coffee machine to avoid looking at the door. Roman Stevanovsky is the kind of danger I’ve spent the last six years running from. He’s also been the object of my every fantasy from the moment Hale Property moved into their gleaming offices across the street.

I might have left my bratva upbringing back in Miami, along with my real name and the Petrovsky fortune, but my libido seems to have remained stubbornly hardwired to Russian bad boy.

“I don’t know why he doesn’t just send a minion for his coffee.” Abby puts her tray down with an audible crash. “Going by the size of the Hale building, he can definitely afford to. Although I guess if he did, he’d miss his daily dose of ‘let’s make Lucia the hot barista blush,’ which is clearly his favorite game.”

I shoot her a warning look, but she just grins.

“I say you slip him your number with his coffee, Luce. Then he can slip you his—”

“Shutup.” I try not to look at the powerful thighs moving into place right in front of me. Unfortunately that leaves me staring at a chest and shoulders that are definitely too hard to belong inside a suit, even an elegantly handmade one. At least he’s got his suit jacket on today.

Small mercies.

I raise my eyes, bracing myself for the daily gut punch of desire.

“Café Americano.”He growls the same black coffee order every day, usually while still speaking into his phone.

Noplease.

Just the order.

“No pasa nada.”Telling him it’s no problem is a lie.

Roman Stevanovskyisa problem.

A six-foot, five-inch problem made of corded muscle, sinfully chiseled lips, and dark hawkish eyes that are currently watching me with a definite shit-stirring spark in them.

And how the fuck can a coffee order send a ripple of desire straight from my ears to my groin?

I adjust the dials slightly on the machine to avoid looking at him. Discovering the exact temperature at which he prefers his coffee was a big win in our daily battle of wills, as was setting the machine to a strength he can’t fault.

He leans against the counter, hands slung casually in his pockets, watching my every move. Despite the bubble of tourist chatter in the café, or perhaps because of it, his silence seems pointedly obvious.

He never takes his coffee at one of the small round tables by the window.

He always stands at the counter to drink it—just inches from my station at the coffee machine.

That much hotness should be illegal.

Especially around twenty-seven-year-old women who haven’t, as Abby kindly enjoys pointing out, been laid in... well,solong.

He takes his coffee in a slender glass, as is customary here in southern Spain. I put the glass on a small saucer and push it across the counter.

“Gracias.”Midnight eyes meet mine, as unreadable as ever, set into an unsmiling face I imagine strikes terror into his minions, but has quite the opposite effect on me. His strong fingers around the glass are almost as disturbing. His knuckles are scarred, like a boxer’s. Given how brutally he deals with his poor subordinates, I can only imagine the damage he does to a punching bag.

That thought leads in dangerous directions.

CEO Man bare chested in the ring, dripping with sweat...

I realize he’s still staring at me, awaiting a response to hisgracias.

“De nada.”My voice is slightly husky, but at least I don’t stammer. And so far, he hasn’t made me blush, which is how I measure who wins and loses each of these little encounters.

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