Page 7 of One Last Shot

“Brutal, sure.” She shrugs and adds, “But he’s hot as hell.”

She takes a left and I follow her down a hallway of conference rooms with frosted glass doors. When we come to the end of the hallway, an executive assistant sits alone at a desk with her back to another bank of windows. Across from her is a small but elegant waiting area with comfortable chairs, a marble table with a variety of magazines, and an elegantly simple chandelier lighting the space. It feels cozy and graceful and not at all like the waiting area of a high-rise office building.

The assistant stands when we approach. Her light brown hair is coiled on top of her head in a loose but tidy bun, and her tortoiseshell glasses are a brand I wouldn’t think she could afford on an admin’s salary. A smattering of freckles across the tops of her cheeks and the bridge of her nose make her look even younger than she probably is. She nods to the receptionist, dismissing her, then reaches her hand across her desk toward me. “Hello, Ms. Volkova. I’m Avery Parker, Mr. Shepherd’s assistant.”

“Hi, Avery,” I say, shaking her hand. “Please, call me Petra.”

“Right this way, Petra.” She steps around her desk and walks toward the door where the hallway ends.Thomas Shepherdis written across that door in modern raised letters reminiscent of the lettering on the glass wall in the reception area. Inside the office, we can hear raised voices.

She glances at me, obviously not expecting arguing behind the door. She knocks twice and there’s dead silence in there as she pushes the door open for me.

My stomach gives a small lurch as the door swings in, but I make sure I exude confidence on the outside as I take in the imposing space. Natural light from the two adjoining walls of floor-to-ceiling windows floods the far end of this corner office, with dark finishes everywhere else—navy walls, and a sitting area immediately off to the side.

Past that sits a dark walnut desk, the man behind it is presumably Mr. Shepherd. He stands as I walk toward him, saying, “Ms. Volkova, welcome. Please, have a seat.” He gestures to one of the two mid-century modern walnut chairs with leather seats that face his desk. The one that’s empty.

The man in the other chair hasn’t moved since the door opened. He sits there like a hulking beast, his tall and muscular frame barely fitting in the seat. I can tell by the tense lines of his thick neck that there’s raw power beneath an otherwise calm exterior. As I come up behind him, I feel like I’m approaching an animal who could turn and overpower me with no effort at all. Despite my own stature, I feel uncommonly vulnerable as I step up behind that empty chair.

I pull it out and as I prepare to take my seat, and glance down at the man in question right as he glances up at me. Those eyes, the color of steel. That razor sharp jawline, apparent even under the facial hair. Those cheekbones that run along the top edge of the neatly trimmed beard. The permanent scowl. His dark hair is longer than I’ve ever seen it and the lines at the corner of his eyes are new, but I’d still recognize him anywhere.

“Sasha?” My voice is full of wonder, because I’m not sure how he is here after all this time. Fourteen years of no contact has that sense of wonder turning to anger in the pit of my stomach.

His deep voice is a husky growl, achingly familiar even as the man who sits in front of me is so different from the one who left me years ago. “Hello, Petra.”

CHAPTER3

ALEKSANDR

Her look of astonishment is replaced immediately by confusion.

“What are you doing here?”

I can barely follow her question because my brain is going haywire, looking at her for the first time in so long. She’s more beautiful than ever.

“Ms. Volkova.” Tom’s voice fills the space, but Petra’s eyes never leave my face. “My client, Alex Ivanov, recently discovered some legal documents that concern you. We thought it best to inform you in person.”

“You tricked me into coming here?” she asks, looking straight at me. She waits a beat, then says, “I don’t care what documents you’ve found, at this point I wantnothingto do with you.”

It’s not what I expected her to say, but it’s not a surprise either. Fourteen years without any contact. Of course she’s pissed. She starts to turn, and I’m afraid she’s going to walk out that door and I’ll never see her again.

“Petra.” Her name comes out harsher than I intended, but succeeds in getting her to stop. I say the one thing I hope will get her to stay. “We’re married.”

That tight blue knee-length dress she’s wearing skims across her body as she staggers forward a few steps in her heels.

I want to get up, go to her, hold her, and tell her we’ll figure this out together. But I can’t. My end goal is unfortunately more important than her feelings. More important than mine too.

“I can see this is quite the shock,” Tom says, his voice all polished finesse that couldn’t sound more different from the man I’ve gotten to know on the squash court. He is the only person in the world who I would actually call a friend.

Petra’s eyes flit to Tom as she turns to face us, and the look on her face asks why he’s even speaking. Then she levels those bright blue eyes right back at me. “What. The. Hell?”

Tom and I agreed it would be better if he were the one to explain things to her. There’s too much at stake for me to stick my foot in my mouth and piss her off. But I can’t sit by silently and ignore her like I have for the past fourteen years. She has always deserved better than that.

“Alex,” Tom draws my name out as a warning, like he knows I’m about to go rogue and is reminding me what we’d agreed to.

I ignore him and turn my attention to Petra. Nothing has changed—the attraction I didn’t want to feel then and don’t want to feel now is still there.

“When my father gave yours the money for your boarding school, that wasn’t an agreement for an exchange of funds. That was a marriage contract.”

Her eyes widen. “Did you know that’s what it was when we both signed it?”

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