Page 5 of Lethal Legacy

Roman Stevanovsky has begun to take up a dangerous amount of my headspace over the past few months.

Going by the fresh paint in the lobby, and the flustered-looking doorman who lets me into the private elevator, he’s only just moved in. I’m a little surprised at the lack of security. Roman Stevanovsky strikes me as a man who’d protect his home with a veritable arsenal.

Then again, one glare from those eyes is probably more than enough to make his enemies burst into flames.

That thought leads to a vision of him barking orders at his minions, which in turn leads to him barking far dirtier orders at me.

Bend over the desk, Miss Lopez.

Spread your legs, Miss Lopez.

I’m going to fuck you now, Miss Lopez...

The elevator slides to a stop before I can slide too dangerously into fantasy land. My mind has a seemingly endless capacity to envisage the different ways Roman Stevanovsky might choose to savage my body.

Bracing myself for a scathing put-down about the grease stains on my T-shirt or the tardiness of my delivery, I’m relieved when I step out of the elevator and hear no signs of life. It seems that CEO Man and whatever army he’s feeding are yet to arrive.

I stack the food cartons in the gleaming kitchen and pad down a dim marble corridor that is clearly made for Louboutins rather than my ratty trainers. It opens into a vast living room with a domed ceiling, beneath which stands a long formal dining table. Plate glass windows look out over the sea on one side and the ancient part of the city on the other. A fully stocked bar lines one wall, beneath hanging lights. At the other end, rich leather couches surround a low carved table, upon which sits an ornate Russian samovar.

It’s been so long since I’ve seen a samovar, especially one that is clearly used. The musky scent of the boxed tea beside it is achingly familiar, twisting my heart with memories of the life I’ve lost.

Despite the penthouse’s undeniable opulence, it looks like nobody has so much as sat on any of the furniture. The restoration is stunning, though. A seamless blend of the ancient and modern. I can just imagine Roman standing up here like an emperor of old, surveying his empire and planning what he will conquer next. I close my eyes and savor both the silence and the nostalgic scent of Russian tea. It mixes with something newer, a crisp, smoky scent that is both familiar and oddly disturbing.

Oh, fuck.

It’s the smell of hellfire.

“What are you doing here?” There’s nothing lighthearted about Roman Stevanovsky’s snarl, or his lethal bulk filling the entrance to the corridor.

Clearly whatever game we normally play doesn’t apply in his inner sanctum.

“I delivered your food.”

I wince. I sound as pathetic as Baby fromDirty Dancing: “I carried a watermelon...”

“I told my assistant to deliver it herself.” He steps barefooted into the living room. His dark hair is tousled, the top of his starched shirt unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to the forearms. Having clearly just woken up from siesta, his appearance is a highly dangerous cross between angry bear and serious thirst trap.

By the look on his face, yet another Hale assistant is clearly about to be fired, if not actually shot, for mistakenly sending me instead of bringing his food herself. And it looks a bit like he might take me out when he’s done with her.

“I was told to bring your food. I brought it.” I’m surprised my voice is still functional. I try not to stare at the corded forearms or narrow V of bare chest. Both are going to be keeping me up tonight. “Now I’m leaving.”

I head toward the elevator doors, which unfortunately means I have to pass right by him.

“Not so fast.” One muscled arm shoots out, blocking my path. There’s no trace of his customaryMiss Lopezor his twisted smile.

Roman Stevanovsky isn’t just pissed.

He’s dangerous.

That should terrify me.

Unfortunately, danger is kind of my body’s default setting.

Heat burns straight through the thin material of my T-shirt and directly down my shorts. I fight the urge to touch the taut muscle blocking my way.

Not to mention the urge to touch myself.

“Nobody comes into this apartment without a security check.” Roman’s curt voice sends a second wave of thrill through me. “Give me your ID and phone number.”

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