Page 18 of Innocently Captured By the Bratva

“Never.” She stands abruptly, the legs of her chair screeching against the hardwood floor as she stalks out of the room. I chuckle under my breath. She's a stubborn little thing.

***

Later, I find her in the library, curled up with a book in the chaise lounge by the window, the morning light illuminating golden streaks in her hair. She has her legs stretched out before her, wearing those short shorts that shouldn’t be allowed.

For a brief moment, my eyes linger on her long legs before I look away and clear my throat, drawing her attention.

I clear my throat, drawing her attention. Quinn looks up from her book, annoyance flickering in her gaze. I take a step forward, my hands in my pockets as I give her a pointed look.

“What?” she says, sitting up in the chair.

“Your phone's been ringing,” I say casually, dangling her phone in front of her. “I believe it’s your office calling. You can have it back if you'll just hear me out about my plan.”

She jumps off the chair, hurrying towards me. Did she really have to wear a god-damn crop top? As if those shorts weren’t bad enough. Blood rushes to my head as she comes within an inch of me, reaching for the phone.

I hold it above my head, and she stands on her toes, arms stretched out above her, her shirt riding up. It takes every ounce of courage in me to resist faltering, to avoid getting lost in her. It’s difficult to focus on why I’m here when it’s so easy to forget myself around her.

She stands on her tiptoes, her fingers brushing against my wrist. Her gaze locks with mine, a silent challenge igniting in those defiant emerald eyes. In that moment, all I can see and feel is her, so close yet frustratingly out of reach.

The tension crackles in the air between us, thick and palpable. I sigh heavily. This woman will be the death of me.

“You can have it,” my voice comes out hoarse. “If you agree to listen to my plan.”

“Then I guess I’d rather not have it,” she says with fire in her voice before she steps back and walks out of the room, as though I’m not even worth the dirt beneath her shoes.

***

That afternoon, I'm in my study when Quinn bursts through the door, face flushed, eyes wild.

“My clients will be wondering where I am! I have meetings and appointments to keep. You can't just keep me locked up here!” She paces the room like a caged tigress.

“Ah, so you’ve been thinking of my proposal.”

“I’ve been thinking of what a dick you are,” she snarls back.

I lean against the edge of my desk, watching her, amused and aroused by her fiery display. “You’re willing to risk your business over your pride, Quinn?” I raise an eyebrow. “Are you being serious right now? All I need is your ear to just listen to what I have to say.”

She turns to face me, her strawberry-blonde hair flying. If looks could kill, I'd be six feet under. “If I listen to what you’re saying, I’m just enabling your crazy plans. You kidnapped me, for the love of God. I doubt anything else you say would be sane!”

“Then let your clients wait,” I snap back at her.

With an inarticulate sound of rage, she spins on her heel and storms out, slamming the door behind her.

Living in close quarters with Quinn is turning into a unique kind of exquisite torture. We're always at each other's throats, bickering and throwing barbs. She matches me quip for quip, never backing down. It's infuriating. Yet, oddly sexy as hell.

I often catch myself watching her when she's not looking. The sway of her hips as she walks, the crease between her brows when she's lost in thought, and the way she bites her bottom lip while reading all captivate me. I want to soothe that lip with my tongue.

Keeping my hands off her is a herculean effort. But I'm nothing if not disciplined. No matter how much the curve of her ass and the fire in her eyes test my famous control...

***

I drum my fingers on the mahogany desk, pondering my next move. Quinn's stubbornness proves to be a formidableobstacle. But I didn't get to where I am by giving up easily. If she won't listen to reason, maybe it's time to fight a little dirty.

An idea sparks. I grab my phone and call Dmitri. “I need you to learn everything you can about Quinn's business. Specifically, any high-profile clients she has been trying to land.”

Dmitri's reply is prompt. “Will do, Boss. I'll have the info to you within the hour.”

True to his word, an email from Dmitri dings my inbox 45 minutes later. I scan the content, a slow grin spreading across my face. Well, well, well. There’s someone I recognize on this list. It seems Miss Quinn Desmond has been trying to snag a certain billionaire bachelor as a client: Viktor Petrov. An old family friend who runs a successful vodka brand... and to the public, a notorious playboy. But as an old friend, I know he’s been looking to settle down.

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