Page 23 of Lethal Legacy

There’s a certain ruthless edge to his words that makes absolutely clear the kind of savagery that will be unleashed if this particular clause is broken.

It should horrify me.

It doesn’t.

Going by the intense pulsing between my legs, savagery is my own personal brand of aphrodisiac.

“There are other conditions, too.”

The dark gleam is still in his eyes, suggesting he can at least sense how aroused I am.

Will he do something about it?I’m ashamed of how much I want him to.

“You might want to take the contract away and read through them. But do it quickly. I need an answer by this afternoon. Your start date, if you agree, is tomorrow.” He lifts the screen on his laptop, a move I’ve seen him make a thousand times in the café when he wants to get rid of one of his minions.

So, no naked duties today, then.

I’m not sure whether it’s my frustrated body or my indignation at being treated like a subordinate that triggers the sudden return of my snark setting.

“This exclusivity clause.” I fold my arms and regard him as steadily as I can. “Is that mutual, too?”

He’s silent for a considerable amount of time, his blank expression giving nothing away. Finally he nods curtly. “For the duration of the contract, yes, I will agree to that.”

Roman Stevanovsky. Exclusively mine.

I’m not going to deny how tempting that sounds, even for a short time. Nor can I deny the amount of zeros in the salary he’s offering.

Enough to move Papa into a new apartment.

To get him proper care.

Enough to buy us new identities.

Even, perhaps, to start rebuilding the Petrovsky bratva.

In short, life-changing money. Not for me, but for my father, and possibly my brother.

It’s the only reason I haven’t told Roman to go to hell, just on principle.

Or at least that’s what I tell myself.

“You have until five this afternoon.” Roman glances at his phone. “Six and a half hours should be more than enough time to read through the contract.” He nods curtly in dismissal and starts typing.

I’m not sure what I was expecting. A trial run of some kind? A naked session on the oval table? Bent over the desk, an ever-winning fantasy?

Certainly not to be dismissed without even the chance of parading my fancy knickers.

I walk to the door slightly unsteadily.

“Miss Lopez.” I halt, heart thudding, half hoping and half dreading what he will say next. But if I thought some kind of indecent proposition was forthcoming, I’m sadly disappointed.

“There is one condition I must insist on before you leave.” I turn to find him pinning me with an uncompromisingly ruthless stare. “While your position as au pair in my household will be public, the rest of our agreement will remain strictly confidential. Do I make myself clear?”

I give a strangled laugh. “If you think that asking me to formally become your live-in sex slave is a fact I want widely advertised, then you’re even more delusional than I thought.”

Then, for the second time in a week, I flee.

7

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