Page 32 of Lethal Legacy

Laid out on his desk . . .

Oh, the filthy thoughts I’ve had about that smooth steel-gray surface.

I text Abby as I try on my limited wardrobe, explaining briefly that I’m resigning to take CEO Man’s offer of being au pair to his godchildren.

OMG!!she messages as I’m standing in front of the mirror in my best lingerie. Then, a moment later:SOOOO HOT.

A third message pops up as I stare at the contents of my suitcase, desperately wishing that something appropriate will magically appear.I hate you for abandoning me. But super stoked for you, too. Love you, Luce. Put in a good word for me with the hot bodyguard?

A series of eggplant, fire, and laughing face emojis follow, with one last message:I want to know EVERYTHING.

Since there’s absolutely no chance of that ever happening, I just reply with a laughing face and a love heart. My own is still thudding erratically.

After half an hour, and the entire contents of my suitcase being strewn haphazardly over every available surface, I finally settle on a strappy turquoise slip dress—sin dress?—that is both demure enough for children and... well... easily removed.

Oh, dear lord.

I bury my flaming face in my hands. Is this going to be my life now? Dressing with the expectation of sex at any given moment?

Andwhydoesn’t that horrify me quite as much as it definitely should?

I apply light makeup, not wanting to overdo it, and pile my hair up in a loose top bun. Then I open the small box I’ve carried with me ever since the day we fled Miami. Inside it is a pair of earrings, the only jewelry I took when Papa and I ran. They once belonged to my mother, who told me they’re one of the rare treasures my father carried with him on his long journey from Russia to the West. They’re turquoise teardrops encased in filigree white gold and studded with tiny diamonds.

They would also fetch over a million dollars in an auction house.

Which would solve all our problems, except that putting them up for sale would be painting a House of Fabergé–sized target on our backs.

While nobody knows exactly what lies in our Miami vault, for as long as I can remember, whispers have swirled about my family’s rumored association with Peter Carl Fabergé, the legendary goldsmith who made jeweled eggs for the Russian imperial family before the 1917 revolution.

This much I know is true: Papa’s father, my grandfather, did indeed help Fabergé escape Russia. It’s the reason he and his entire family were locked up in the gulag, where my father was born.

I don’t even remember how I first learned that part of our family story was true. What I do know is that our history was a fact that hid in the shadows, a past I inhaled with my first breath, but that was never spoken of.

Ironically, since we left Miami, not even knowledgeable jewelers have given my earrings a second look. I guess that nobody imagines an illegal immigrant will be walking around wearing over a million dollars on their ears.

And I usually don’t wear them. My mother’s earrings have a value to me that goes far beyond money. But some old vestige of pride inside me wants to wear them tonight. Wants Roman Stevanovsky to catch a glimpse of Darya Petrovsky, the woman I’ve had to hide for so long.

It’s dangerous, I know. But given that I’m about to visit the office of a man who has just bought my body for the foreseeable future, I figure I’ve well and truly crossed the danger line.

11

LUCIA

By the time I’m checking my reflection in the Hale elevator, it’s two minutes to six. I step out to find the reception desk empty and the entire floor seemingly deserted. Heart thudding, I knock tentatively on the heavy door.

“Come in.”

Roman’s low growl sends a thrill straight from ear to groin.

The lights are low when I enter the vast office. Beyond the plate glass windows, the dying sun is setting fire to the sea, painting a brilliant backdrop to the pinprick city lights below. Roman is standing behind his desk, unsmiling and unreadable as ever.

“You do enjoy living dangerously, Miss Lopez.”

I almost laugh aloud at how closely his words mirror my own recent thoughts.

“Your message came right at five p.m. Now you make it to my office right at six. Let us both hope your precision timing is an indication that you take punctuality seriously.” The sardonic tone in his voice suggests his meaning is quite different than his words. It also gets my inner sassy coffee bitch going.

“You could always try giving me a little notice of your intentions.”

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