Page 55 of Cruel Paradise

Ah, yes, just what every woman wants to hear.And I thought I’d done such a great job of hiding it.

“Oh. Have I?”

“Yes.” His voice cuts like broken glass. “It’s Monday, Ms. Carson. Most people come back from the weekend with a little gas in their tanks.”

“Clearly, those people don’t have three children to deal with and a lazy freeloader eating all the snacks in the house. Do you know how important snacks are in a house with three children, Rus—Mr. Oryolov? I’ll tell you—reallyfucking important.”

On second thought, Ruslan might have a point about the whole “flustered” thing.

I wish I could swallow my words back. Cursing on the job, in front of my boss—my infamously vindictive, short-tempered, maybe-not-maybe-a-mob-boss boss—would normally be a shortcut to getting fired. But I’m really hoping Ruslan will go easy on me.

One, because I really did have a hellaciously stressful weekend.

Two, because I backed him up with the skeezy reporter who wanted me to turn informant for his gossip rag.

And three, because—to put it indelicately—we’re fucking.

Well, wehavefucked, with more contractually-obligated sessions on the horizon. But judging from the way Ruslan is glaring at me right now, that horizon is getting further and further away.

Before Ruslan can kick me out of his office or reprimand me for using inappropriate language in the workplace, my phone starts vibrating yet again.

“I’m so sorry to take up so much of your time, Ms. Carson,” Ruslan deadpans. “I didn’t realize how busy you were today.”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” I mutter, trying to shut my phone up. “Ugh, how do you turn the damn vibration off?” I almost drop my phone trying to change the settings. In the end, I just shove it into the pocket of my fitted black pants. I glance up to see that Ruslan is still staring at me with those crackling amber eyes.

“If you need the services of a full-time nanny, I can make some inquiries on your behalf. You can certainly afford one now.”

It takes a few too many seconds for his offer to compute. While it does, I just blink at him. Is he really trying to behelpful? Unless of course he’s just being sarcastic and I’m so turned around that it’s going right over my head. That would make more sense.

“Um—that’s—really nice of you,” I manage to choke out. “But the kids already have a nanny. Amelia is good.”

“But she’s not full-time?”

“No, and I don’t want her to be, either.” I shift uncomfortably. “I want to be able to spend quality time with them on the weekends at least. I barely get to see them during the week.”

I have no idea what he thinks of that. His cheekbones are carved from marble. “At the expense of your own sanity—and by extension, mine?”

I clench my jaw. “I’m not stressed because of the kids. I mean, yes, the weekend was chaotic. Caroline broke a wine glass and Reagan took a marker to the walls. And something’s bothering Josh, but I have no idea what because he doesn’t—” I clam up when Ruslan’s eyebrows knit together. “Well, anyway, my point is that the kids aren’t the problem; my parents are.”

“Is that who’s been calling you?”

“Incessantly.”

Among others.I decide to leave all mention of Remmy aside. The less I think of that slimeball, the better.

For a split second, I detect the shadow of a smile on Ruslan’s face. But one blink later, he seems just as irritated as ever. “Kindly inform them that you don’t take personal calls at work. You’re excused, Ms. Carson.”

It’s a heavy-handed way of saying, ‘I don’t give a shit about your family drama; just keep it out of the office,’ but I still think I’ve gotten off easy. I’m almost at the door when he stops me.

“Oh, and Ms. Carson?”

Burying the flinch, I turn back around. “Yes?”

“Be ready at eight tonight.”

I gulp and nod. Then I levitate back to my desk.

The world seems brighter and less grim now. A visit to the penthouse is exactly what I need tonight. Between Ben and Remmy and my parents, I’m strung out. I want someone to hit my factory reset button and reboot my brain. And apparently, that button is located inside my vagina.

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