Page 2 of Lethal Legacy

I blush, he wins.

I surprise him, I win.

So far we’re running about even.

I stick my head back in the coffee machine and focus on not flushing. It’s ridiculous, the effect Roman has on me. Going by the dark salon car that whisks him to and from the glass-plated office building opposite, not to mention the minions usually running after him, he’s definitely the boss at Hale Property. But I know he’s a lot more than that, even if I’ve never seen the star tattoos on his shoulders. I looked up Roman Stevanovsky the first day I heard him bark orders in Russian. Intriguingly, he’s buried his trail almost as effectively as I have mine.

On paper, Roman Stevanovsky is CEO of Hale, a property development company with varied investments.

But that doesn’t mean he isn’t a killer in practice.

I don’t need to see the ink under his shirt, or touch the gun under his jacket, to know he hasbratvawritten all over every muscled inch of his body.

Roman Stevanovsky might use the facade of a boardroom, but I’d lay every one of his lavish tips that his real work involves blood and steel.

Which is probably why I can’t take my eyes off him.

Roman’s phone vibrates on the counter. He picks it up, scowling with annoyance.

“Da,”he barks.

He catches my eye and points at his coffee, not pausing for a moment in his constant stream of abuse at some poor soul who hasn’t, I gather, delivered the furniture for his new apartment on time. I stand in front of him with a jug of hot milk in one hand, hot water in the other, eyebrows raised in question. He frowns and shakes his head, then nods at the sugar bowl, which is only inches out of his reach.

I don’t bother to hide my eye roll. Without moving either foot I stretch sideways, pick the sugar up with exaggerated care, and place it directly in front of him. Then I fold my arms and raise my eyebrows again.

Anything else I can do for you, my lord and master?

Holding my eyes, ridiculously perfect lips curled in an insolent grin that makes me want to simultaneously throw him through a window and onto the floor naked, Roman slowly drips a teaspoon of sugar into his glass.

Well, asshole, you haven’t made me blush yet, so the game is anyone’s.

I think he worked out early that the longer he stares, the more inclined I am to blush. It’s gotten worse since the weather warmed up.

Revolting Pete, as Abby and I call our sleaze of a boss, changed our uniform to shorts that barely cover our butts and white T-shirts cut so low that I spend half the day scared I’ll show up on an Instagram post for #freethenipple.

Pointedly ignoring the midnight eyes watching my every move, I turn back to making the terrible milky tea that English tourists insist on drinking despite the brilliant Mediterranean sun blazing down on the pavement outside the café. Malaga is full of Brits at any time of year. Right now, in the weeks leading up to Easter, or Holy Week as the Spanish call it, they’re everywhere. Our café stocks newspapers in multiple languages and is a favorite among the expat community.

Roman pulls a Russian newspaper across the counter and glances through the pages as he talks.

He finds the completed crossword and frowns at me. I suppress my smile.

One of my finer moves in our little war is to complete the crossword in his favorite Russian newspaper every morning before he arrives, just to piss him off.

Roman Stevanovsky might be hot enough to melt tarmac, but he’s also a grade A asshole. And not even a subtle one.

Hell is what he creates, and as Abby enjoys pointing out, he’s as seductive and dangerous as the devil that rules it.

In the five months since he’s been coming in, I’ve watched him reduce several assistants and at least two grown men to tears. I’ve seen at least half a dozen semifamous models throw everything from drinks to diamond necklaces at him. And not once have I seen any of it make even the slightest dent in his impeccably handmade, far too well-fitting suit.

You’d think that a lifetime of danger, not to mention six years of running from the Orlov bratva, would be enough to make me run the first time I heard Roman barkdainto his phone.

The fact that I’m still here in Malaga, Spain, serving coffee every day to a man who is clearly from the same world I’ve run halfway around the globe to escape, is the kind of issue that could pay a psychologist’s mortgage.

One lastdabarked down his phone,and he’s done with what I imagine is his first savaging of the day. Which means that it’s time to go to battle with me instead.

“Miss Lopez.”

“Mr. Stevanovsky.”

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