Page 29 of Dirty Damage

“I don’t need to hear it. I’m not interested in… what you’re interested in.”

“I’m willing to bet we’re interested in many of the same things, Sutton.”

He steps closer, and I stumble backward—both from his proximity and the sound of my name on his lips, echoing in the air around us.

His brow arches. “You seem on edge.”

“Only because I have a habit of getting myself into sticky situations.”

“Yes, I’m aware. I saw just how ‘sticky’ your situation was the other day.”

I fight the blush threatening to explode across my face. “Listen, about that… It was a series of unfortunate events. I had an accident while Chloe and I were playing, and there aren’t any showers in the daycare center, and I figured using the locker room wouldn’t hurt, but that was a big mistake. Clearly. I mean, the trespassing and the stuck zipper and the?—”

His eyes darken dangerously, the same way they did after he’d freed me from the dress.

I bite my lip to stop myself from talking, and his gaze flicks to my mouth.

This is what I get for spending the last few months with toddlers and Mara. I’ve lost my ability to blend in with the normal people—if Oleg Pavlov can be considered “normal.”

“I’m not trying to justify anything,” I ramble on, no sign of this runaway train of thought slowing down. “Just explaining that I’m usually more?—”

“Professional?” he interrupts. “I hope so. It’s why I chose you.”

The words wash over me like ice water. “Youchoseme? For what?”

He gestures to the bar, pointing at a green suede stool. “Take a seat.”

I eye the erotic art one last time before deciding that, since I’m already in hell, I might as well enjoy the view.

He slides a glass over to me, but I shake my head. “Drinks and interviews don’t mix.”

Drinks and a body like his don’t mix, either. A couple shots is all it would take to crumble the walls of my self-respect.

“This isn’t your usual interview,” he says, confirming my worst fears with a smirk.

“If this is about the photos I accidentally sent?—”

“Was that an accident?” The tilt of his eyebrows mocks me.

“Yes,” I grit out. “And I think they’ve given you the wrong impression. I’m not?—”

“Actually—” He pours me a second glass; this time, it’s water from a sealed bottle. “They left a great impression. It’s why you’re here.”

Oh, God.

He passes me the water along with a stack of papers. “I took the liberty of drawing up a contract.”

I gape at him. There’s confidence and then there’s…this. “You already drew up a contract? I don’t even know what the job is yet.”

“No, but I do. And when I know what I want, I don’t waste time.” He nods to the contract. “Read it. I wouldn’t want you to sign blindly.”

I open to the first page and stare at the header.

Then my eyes snap to his. They’re pure, molten gold up close. Lethal.

“This contract isn’t for Pavlov Industries.”

“Very astute. This is personal—between you and me.”

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