Page 68 of Filthy Promises

“She seems… efficient,” she remarks, the word dripping with disdain.

I take another sip of scotch. “One of my most valuable employees.”

“Hmm. I’m sure.” Her smile is all teeth now. “Though perhaps a bit young and inexperienced for such a senior position?”

I meet her gaze directly. “I value potential over experience.”

“Is that what you call it?” She laughs, the sound like ice cubes clinking in a glass. “My father mentioned you had taken a particular interest in your new assistant. I see he wasn’t exaggerating.”

That puts a twist of anger on my face. “Your father should concern himself with his own business.”

“Our business is soon to be shared business, is it not?” She reaches across the table, placing her hand over mine. Her skin is cold to the touch, a flopping fish, an ice sculpture pawing at me in a way I despise. “That’s why we’re here, after all.”

I force myself not to scowl or pull away. “We’re here because our fathers think it’s a good idea. Let’s not pretend otherwise.”

Her smile falters. “Direct, aren’t you?”

“Always.” I glance over at Rowan again, finding her already looking at me. She quickly drops her gaze back to her tablet. “It saves time.”

“Then let me be direct as well.” Irina leans forward, cleavage strategically displayed. “I don’t care if you fuck your assistant. I don’t care if you fuck every assistant in your building. All I care about is the arrangement our families have discussed. The appearance of a proper marriage. The combining of our interests.”

I raise an eyebrow. “How very modern of you.”

“I’m a pragmatist, Vincent. Just like you.” She takes a delicate sip of champagne. “We could be good together. Powerful. We understand each other’s worlds. We speak the same language.”

She’s right. We do.

But suddenly, that language feels hollow.

“The duck here is excellent,” I say, changing the subject abruptly. “I recommend it highly.”

The rest of dinner is a haze of expensive food and meaningless conversation. I answer when appropriate, nod at the right moments, but my mind is elsewhere.

It’s on soft skin under silk. On the small gasp Rowan couldn’t quite suppress when I touched her. One glance at her is all it takes to know her mind is doing the same self-torture that mine is.

Dreaming of moans cascading down empty office hallways. Wondering how it would feel if I bound her wrists with my black silk tie and hiked that green dress up and over her hips. She’s wondering, just like me, how pretty she’d gasp when my fingers found her wetness.

She’d yearn for it.

She’d burn for it.

When the bill arrives—or rather, when I signal for it and sign without looking at the amount—Irina excuses herself to the ladies’ room. The moment she’s gone, I gesture for Rowan to join me.

She approaches cautiously, like she’s afraid I might reach for her thigh again. No—like she’s afraid she mightwantme to.

“Is there something you need, sir?” she asks, her voice carefully professional.

“Your assessment,” I say.

She blinks. “Of what?”

“Ms. Petrov. Your impressions.”

Rowan hesitates, clearly struggling with how honest to be. “She seems… suitable.”

“Suitable,” I repeat, amused by her diplomatic answer. “Is that all?”

“She’s beautiful,” Rowan admits. “And she clearly comes from your world. She understands things I don’t.”

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