Page 144 of Filthy Promises

I put the phone down without answering. She’s right, and I hate it. Vince does deserve to know about the baby. But that doesn’t make it any easier to tell him.

How exactly do you drop that bomb? “Hey, congratulations on your engagement! By the way, I’m pregnant with your child. Have a nice life with your Russian crime princess!”

Yeah, that’ll go over great.

The elevator dings, making me jump. Before I can minimize the resignation letter on my screen, Vince strides out. When he sees me, he stops short. “You’re still here,” he says, sounding almost surprised.

“Just finishing some things up.” I quickly click away from the resignation letter.

He watches me, that intense gaze that always makes me feel like he can see straight through me. “Good. I need to talk to you.”

My stomach knots. “If it’s about the Hong Kong paperwork, I’ve already?—”

“It’s not about work.” He glances toward his office. “Come inside. Please.”

The “please” throws me. Vincent Akopov doesn’t say please. He commands, he demands, he expects. He doesn’t request.

“It’s late,” I hedge. “I should really get going.”

“Five minutes,” he says, and there’s an urgency in his voice I’ve never heard before. “That’s all I’m asking.”

Against my better judgment, I rise from my desk. My legs feel wooden as I follow him into his office.

He closes the door behind us. Instead of moving to his desk, he remains standing, close enough that I can smell his cologne.

“I need to tell you something,” he starts, then pauses, apparently struggling with words.

Vincent Akopov, at a loss for words. That’s new.

“What is it?” I prompt when the silence stretches too long.

He takes a deep breath. “The engagement?—”

Before he can continue, the elevator dings again. Multiple times in rapid succession.

Vince’s head snaps up, his entire demeanor changing instantly. Gone is the man who seemed on the verge of some important confession. In his place stands the predator I’ve glimpsed before—alert, dangerous, coiled to strike.

“Get behind my desk,” he orders sharply.

“What—”

“Now, Rowan!”

The elevator doors slide open, and suddenly, the quiet office is filled with shouting. Footsteps thunder across the marble floor of the reception area.

“FBI! Nobody move!”

Everything happens so fast. Men in bulletproof vests withFBIemblazoned across them flood into the office, guns drawn. I’m frozen in shock until Vince grabs my arm and practically throws me behind his desk.

“Stay down,” he hisses, just as the first agents burst through his office door.

“Vincent Akopov?” A stern-faced man in a suit holds up a badge. “I’m Special Agent Carver. We have a warrant to search these premises.”

Vince’s face reveals nothing. He might as well be discussing the weather. “May I see this warrant?”

While they’re exchanging words, my eyes land on Vince’s laptop. It’s open, the screen showing a folder labeled “SOLOVYOV.” Even from here, I can see documents that look suspiciously like shipping manifests.

Shipping manifests. Like the ones I overheard him discussing on the phone that night.

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