Page 73 of Dirty Damage

“That picture isn’t even real! It’s notme. I mean, if you can just Photoshop any skinny bitch onto a yacht with you, why the hell am I here? What’s my role?”

His jaw twitches. “Your role is outlined in our contract. Might I suggest another readthrough?”

I step closer, tilting my chin up. Even in my highest heels, he towers over me. “Yeah? Well, your role is outlined in that contract, too. And it’s going to be pretty hard for me to fulfill my part if you don’t fulfill yours.”

Heat rises to his face. His expression hardens to stone.

I turn on my heel and stride out, satisfaction burning through my veins.

Let him chew on that for a while.

21

OLEG

My uncle’s summons arrives an hour after Sutton leaves.

BORIS:Come see me immediately. We need to discuss your… engagement.

Boris is master of the passive-aggressive text. The ellipsis speaks volumes about the direction this conversation will go.

Which is exactly why he can wait.

I have a lot of work to catch up on. The last hour was lost to thoughts of Sutton. I was in fucking shambles after she stormed into my office, her dress hugging every line and swell of her body. She was all curves and attitude and a bristlingfuck-youenergy that made my blood sing.

Her perfume still lingers, taunting me.

“Boss?”

Vol stands in my doorway looking like he’s about to piss himself.

Not an unusual state for him when he enters my office.

“I have an update on the two intruders from the marina.”

I sigh. It feels like years since I knocked out the two men who trespassed near my yacht. So much has changed since then.

“And?”

“They’re not Martinek men.”

I arch an eyebrow, which is a sign for him to continue.

“We did a deep dive—credit searches, bank accounts, communications—and someone bought them. It’s a ghost organization. Completely under the radar.”

“So you came here to tell me you have nothing.”

He nods miserably. “But we’re working on?—”

“Work harder,” I growl. “Get out.”

Vol trips over his own feet trying to retreat. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me alone with Boris’s message flashing at the top of my notifications and the persistent memory of silk-wrapped curves I’d like to map with my hands.

And my lips.

And my?—

“Fuck,” I spit, opening my laptop.

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