Page 66 of Filthy Promises

VINCE

Per Se is exactly what it’s designed to be—exclusive, expensive, impressive. The type of place where the waitstaff hovers just out of sight until needed, then materializes like well-dressed ghosts to bow until their noses scrape the floor.

I loathe it.

Too sterile. Too predictable. Too fucking boring.

Kind of like this date.

“The caviar here is flown in from the Caspian Sea every morning,” Irina Petrov informs me, her perfectly manicured finger tracing the rim of her champagne flute. “Though I imagine you already know that.”

Irina is objectively beautiful. That’s a fact, not an opinion. Long, dark hair, skin like porcelain, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. She’s wearing a red dress that’s been poured onto a figure that many plastic surgeons have worked tirelessly to perfect.

But all I can think about is green.

Green like the dress Rowan is wearing. Another creation I had specially delivered this morning. Another shade that makes her eyes shine like a precious gem I’ve dug out of the dirt myself.

Rowan sits at a small table nearby—close enough to be summoned if needed, far enough to give the illusion of privacy. She’s pretending to work on her tablet, but I can see the tension in her shoulders. She’s listening to every word.

Good.

Thoughts of what a jealous Rowan might do have consumed me since the observation first sparked in my head at the gala. Seeing her in her apartment last night confirmed it: she’s dying inside. The mere mention of me on a date with another woman has her fucking seething.

Never mind that I can’t stand these women, that I don’t have the least desire to so much as make eye contact with them, much less take them to bed. Rowan doesn’t know that and I don’t intend to tell her.

Jealousy is too beautiful of a shade of green on her.

“My father speaks highly of your business expansion plans,” Irina continues, dragging my attention back to her. “Particularly the new shipping routes through the Baltic.”

I take a sip of my scotch, doing my damndest to keep my disinterest from showing. “Does he?”

“Mmm. He believes our families could benefit from closer cooperation.” Her lips curve into what I’m sure she thinks is a seductive smile.

I’ve seen that exact smile on a dozen women before her. It’s never been less impressive.

“Cooperation is always valuable,” I reply noncommittally.

My eyes drift back to Rowan. She’s tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. That nervous habit of hers. I wonder if she knows she does it. I wonder if she knows that, every time she does, I imagine wrapping that same hair around my fist and pushing her onto her knees.

“Vincent?” Irina’s voice has an edge now. “Am I boring you?”

Yes. Profoundly.

“Not at all,” I lie smoothly. “Please, continue about your father’s opinions.”

She launches into another rehearsed monologue about family alliances and business synergies. All code, of course. She’s talking about the Bratva. About becoming the power couple of the Russian underworld.

Under different circumstances, I might be interested. She’s smart, she’s connected, she speaks the language of our world fluently. The perfect bride for a man in my position.

Yet all I can focus on is the way Rowan shifts in her chair. How her teeth gnaw at her lower lip as she pretends not to watch us.

What’s happening inside of her, I wonder? Is she squirming in discomfort? Does she wish it was her in red, flirting with me, bragging to me, so utterly assured that this night will end the way she wants it to?

Or does the little voyeurlikeher seat, her point of view? Is she getting the peep show she hoped for? Is she dreaming ofmore?

“Excuse me,” I tell Irina, pulling out my phone. “I need to check something with my assistant.”

Before she can respond, I’m already signaling to Rowan. She rises immediately and approaches our table, tablet in hand.

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