Page 34 of Lethal Legacy

I stay silent. I have no idea what to say. I’m still cursing my own naivety in thinking he wouldn’t check into me. Of course he would. What self-respecting criminal risks hiring another one?

“I will require your passport, Miss Lopez.”

“I don’t have one.” That answer is easy enough. And honest. I meet his eyes when I say it.

“Your date and place of birth, then.”

He watches me hesitate. Finally I give him the Lucia Lopez date of birth from my fake passport. It shouldn’t lead anywhere or raise any red flags. But that doesn’t mean I like taking the risk.

“I take it that your lack of a bank account is due to your illegal status?”

He nods curtly when I confirm this. “I will give you access to one of our business accounts. It won’t be in your name, but you have my word it will be exclusively yours. It will also be entirely untraceable. I take it that will be acceptable?”

Acceptable?Who the hell can organize an untraceable account under a fake name at a moment’s notice?

Bratva, that’s who.

But given the circumstances, it’s also an incredibly generous offer. If I’m honest, such sensitivity isn’t something I’d have expected from CEO Man. He hasn’t particularly struck me as the caring type.

Except when his hands were taking care of every inch of you...

I wrench myself out of that line of thought, deeply disturbed that when faced with the possibility of my carefully disguised identity being uncovered, all I can think about is getting naked with the very person threatening my exposure.

“Yes.” I gulp. “That will be acceptable.”

“This doesn’t mean my security man will cease his background search, Miss Lopez.” Is it my imagination, or is there the faint hint of a question in that comment? Either way, it doesn’t matter. I’m not saying anything that will make this situation more perilous than it already is.

And besides, his security man won’t find a damn thing, no matter how clever he is. Beyond one long-ago flight from Argentina to Morocco, Lucia Lopez barely exists. Nor is there any connection between her and Juan Ortega, an old Argentinian man who made the same flight several days after her and never returned. There’s no record of either of us ever arriving in Spain.

There is no trail to find. Which, I remind myself, inhaling deeply, is why Ididfeel confident to take this job. No, I didn’t have time to play this exact scenario out in my mind, and despite all I’ve been through in the past few years, this moment is probably the first time I’ve genuinely feared someone looking closely into my false identity.But you’renota naive fool, Darya,I tell myself sternly. I’ve covered our tracks at every step. Nor am I a criminal. Or not in any way that poses a threat to Roman’s household. As far as he will ever know, I’m just an illegal immigrant who needs to catch a break.

And this is that break.

Now all I have to do is keep my mouth shut for a few months—then run. As far, and as fast, as I possibly can.

Roman stands up, and my heart starts that slow thudding again.

Is this the moment?

His hands grip the edge of his desk, and all I can think of is how those long fingers stroked me until I was wet and wanting, before plunging into me and sending me rocketing into oblivion.

“Miss Lopez.” Roman is looking at me with slightly raised eyebrows. “I said that we have a table waiting.”

He stands, gesturing to the door. I stumble to my feet, almost knocking the chair over in my haste.

That’s it?

No ravishing on the desk? No clever fingers right where I’m aching for them?

Maybe he wants dinner first.

I wasn’t expecting seduction. But so far, this is all far more businesslike than Iwasexpecting.

Roman drives us to the restaurant himself, in a gleaming black Mercedes-Maybach sedan that whispers through the streets in the silent luxury only custom-made leather and steel can deliver. He drives with the same ruthless precision he runs Hale. I try not to imagine the dexterous hands on the wheel caressing my body.

We don’t speak for the duration of the journey, not least because I’m trying to work out how the hell I’m supposed to organize the shitstorm that is my life by tomorrow morning. Especially if I’ll be spending tonight spread out across Roman Stevanovsky’s bed.

I cross my legs and look away from those hands. My almost unbearable state of sexual tension is extremely unhelpful in my efforts to think analytically.

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