Page 64 of Filthy Promises

I swallow hard and step back, pulling the door wider.

Vince strides in like he owns the place—which, given the number of Akopov Industries properties in the city, he actually might. His presence immediately makes my apartment feel ten times smaller.

He surveys my humble abode—the lumpy futon that converts to my bed, the kitchenette with peeling laminate countertops, the single window with its lovely view of the bird-shit-covered building next door.

“Charming,” he remarks. His tone suggests the exact opposite.

“It’s home,” I say defensively, crossing my arms over my chest. I’m suddenly, painfully aware that I’m not wearing a bra. Given how old and worn-through it is, this shirt is closer to tissue paper than to proper cotton, so the dark circles of my nipples would be blindingly obvious even if theyweren’tstanding on end.

Which they are.

Vince notices, too. His eyes linger for a heartbeat too long before returning to my face.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“Something came up.” He walks to my small bookshelf, examining the titles. Something about the way his finger strokes down the spines one at a time is absurdly sexual. “I need to discuss it with you before tomorrow.”

“And it couldn’t wait until morning? Or, I don’t know, happen over the phone?”

He pivots to face me, his blue eyes smoldering. “Some conversations shouldn’t happen at the office. Or over unsecured lines.”

A chill runs down my spine. “Is this about what we discussed at the gala? Because I told you, I’m not going to say anything about?—”

“No, Rowan, this isn’t about that. Not exactly.” He picks up my wine glass—er, wine cup—from the coffee table and sniffs it. His nose wrinkles and he sets it back down in a hurry. “Though we should probably revisit your understanding of discretion sometime soon.”

I reach for my cup, my fingers brushing against his as I reclaim it. The contact sends sparks of molten electricity dancing up my arm.

“Then what is it about?” I take a sip of wine for courage.

Vince moves closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne like a tide of things unspoken and unspeakable.

“My father has arranged a series of… meetings,” he says, watching my face carefully. “With potential brides.”

The wine turns sour in my mouth. “Oh.”

“‘Oh,’” he echoes. “Is that all you ever have to say?”

I shrug, trying to look nonchalant even as a cold and heavy dread settles in my stomach. “Uh, congratulations? I’m not sure what you want me to say.”

“I want you to say you’ll accompany me.”

I blink at him. “To your dates?”

“They’re not dates,” he corrects sharply. “They’re business meetings. Potential alliances.”

“Right. Of course.” I take another sip of wine, not because it tastes good, since Lord knows it’s more like gasoline than a refreshing beverage now, but because I’m getting more and more certain that “blackout drunk” is the only way I’ll be able to tolerate this conversation. “And you need me there because…?”

“You’re my assistant. I need someone to keep track of my schedule, take notes if necessary, and ensure these meetings conclude efficiently.”

I laugh incredulously. “You want me to be yourtimekeeper? To make sure your dates with future Mrs. Akopov don’t run long?”

His jaw tightens. “As I said, they’re not dates.”

“Does your father know I’ll be there?”

“My father doesn’t dictate how I conduct my business.”

I raise an eyebrow. “From what I saw at the gala, he certainly tries to.”

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