Page 51 of Masked Seduction
I straighten my shoulders and smooth my skirt although it isn’t wrinkled. “Jenna Ridley,” I say, offering my hand. “I’m Abram’s assistant.”
Daria’s gaze drops to my hand before taking a slow, calculated trip over my body. Her lip curls.She doesn’t take my hand. Instead, she tilts her head and lets out a low, mocking hum. “His assistant,” she says, as if the word tastes sour in her mouth. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
My cheeks burn, but my smile is even. There’s no way she knows. Still, something about her tone makes my stomach twist.
She looks back to Abram. “You’ve been busy. Locked doors and flushed cheeks… I wonder what your sisters would say.”
I stand my ground. I won’t let her see me squirm. But behind my calm façade, I’m screaming.
Abram’s voice sharpens like a knife. “Mind your own business. And again, show my assistant some respect.”
Daria chuckles, low and sinister, the sound curling through the air like cigar smoke. Her eyes flick back to me, narrowing slightly, like she’s taking a measurement.
She knows. And it’s obvious.
I can’t tell if she’s amused, jealous, furious or all three wrapped up in her tight little sneer. A corner of her mouth twitches.
And then I get my answer. Not to what she’s feeling but to who she is.
Abram crosses his arms over his chest and says flatly, “Jenna, this is Daria Vasilieva. My ex-wife.”
My stomach drops. Ex-wife?
I blink, trying not to show how hard the revelation lands. Of course he had a life before me, I know that. He’s older. Powerful. Gorgeous. Of course there’s a past. But an ex-wife? The kind of woman who shows up unannounced, acting like she owns the place?
I have no right to feel anything. He’s not mine. So far, we’ve only slept together.
“Charmed,” Daria says in a tone that suggests the opposite.
She turns to Abram again, all syrup and bite. “If your assistant’s done gawking, maybe she can get us some drinks? Or is that a service she doesn’t provide?”
My jaw tenses. Oh, she’s good. Polished. Deliberately insulting. I open my mouth to reply, but Abram beats me to it.
“Keep up the attitude and you won’t be here long enough to enjoy a drink,” he says, in the kind of tone that makes grown men shut up and listen. “Let’s not waste Jenna’s time.”
Daria’s posture shifts. It’s subtle, but I catch it in the way her shoulders droop, the shift in her hips, the softening of her expression. Like a snake coiling into a silk ribbon, suddenly, she’s all charm.
“Oh, Abram,” she purrs, brushing an invisible speck off her blouse. “Always so dramatic.”
The change is so instant it makes my teeth clench. I want to roll my eyes but don’t. Professional. Polite. I’ve got no claim here. There’s no reason for me to be angry.
Except I am.
Not necessarily because of her, but because he hasn’t said a damn thing to make her leave yet.
And because some part of me is already wondering what else I don’t know about him, about his past.
“Jenna,” Abram says, switching back to reality. “Would you mind bringing each of us an Irish coffee?”
I nod, keeping my composure. “Of course.”
I don’t look at Daria as I turn, though I can feel her eyes on me, tracking, assessing. Like she’s trying to decide if I’m a bug to squash or a threat to neutralize.
In the kitchenette, I pour two fingers of whiskey into mugs before adding some leftover coffee from the earlier meeting. Beverages in hand, I return to the Abram’s office, pausing near the door before entering. I listen.
Daria isn’t saying much. She stays quiet, and I soon realize she’s waiting for me to leave. I square my shoulders and walk back in, offering the drinks with a pleasant smile that feels too tight.
“Here you are,” I say, extending hers first. But just as she takes it, she jerks slightly, a splash of coffee landing on her blouse. It’s barely the size of a quarter, but she gasps like I doused her in lighter fluid.
