Page 22 of Filthy Promises

“Do we have a deal, Ms. St. Clair?” he asks softly.

My mind races. This is insane. Completely insane. I should protect myself from whatever game he’s playing because there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell that I come out on top.

But then I think of Mom. That stack of bills isn’t getting any smaller, and if I could get her better meds, better healthcare, maybe a nurse to come share the burden of caring for her every once in a while…

How could I say no?

“When would I start?” My voice sounds steadier than I feel, mostly because “how I feel” is the emotional equivalent of Jim putting Dwight’s stapler in a Jell-O mold inThe Office: pink, wobbly, and useless.

“Immediately.” He extends his hand. “Do we have a deal?”

I look at his outstretched hand, then back at his face. Those blue eyes reveal nothing.

I take his hand. His palm is warm, his grip firm. A current seems to pass between us, and I wonder if he feels it, too.

“We have a deal, Mr. Akopov.”

He smiles, and it transforms his face. It’s that smile that makes it hard for me to breathe, that makes my heart race like I’ve just run a marathon.

More than anything else, it’s that smile that spells danger.

More than anything else, it’s that smile that means I can’t say no.

“Excellent,” he says, releasing my hand. “Diane will familiarize you with the workstation and brief you on your duties.”

“Thank you,” I say, still not quite believing this is real. “I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t.” His voice takes on an edge I can’t quite decipher. “Because failure is not an option in my world, Ms. St. Clair.”

I gulp. Nod. Rise on shaky knees and start to stumble toward the door.

“Oh, and Rowan?” he adds as I turn to leave. The sound of my first name on his lips makes me freeze.

“Yes?”

“That dress suits you. Green is your color.” Then he nods and the moment is severed. “You may go now.”

I stumble out of his office like a newborn calf, all shaky knees and fuzzy brain.

Green is my color.

He noticed my dress.

He knows I’ve had a crush on him for five years.

Everything is both worse and better than I could have imagined, and I’m not sure which terrifies me more.

The elderly drill sergeant—Diane, apparently—waits for me at her desk, her face impassive as marble. I wonder if she’s witnessed this scene before. How many women has Vince Akopov pulled into his orbit, only to spit them out when he’s done? How many has he looked at like they’re something he wants to devour, bite by bloody bite?

“Your desk is here,” she says, gesturing to a sleek setup positioned directly outside his office. “You’ll need to clear out your things from the marketing department today. I’ve prepared a handbook with your duties.”

The book she forks over to me is thick enough to stop a bullet. Maybe that’s the point.

“Thank you,” I manage.

“The last five assistants lasted less than three months each,” she says, voice flat as week-old soda. “Mr. Akopov has… exacting standards.”

My stomach plummets. “And Vanessa?”

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