Page 70 of Filthy Promises

“Yes?”

“What are we doing?”

The question contains multitudes.

I smile, knowing exactly what she’s asking but unwilling to give her the answer she wants. Not yet. “Playing the game, little doe. The only way to win is to see it through to the end.”

She nods, understanding even as disappointment flickers across her face. “Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight, Rowan.”

I watch her walk to her building, shoulders squared despite the confusion I know she must be feeling. Only when she’s safely inside do I signal the driver to continue on to my penthouse.

Alone in the backseat, I close my eyes and lean my head back. The scent of her perfume lingers, teasing me with possibilities.

Irina Petrov makes sense on paper. She’s the logical choice. The safe choice. The one my father would approve of.

But logic has never tasted as sweet as the gasp Rowan couldn’t quite suppress when I touched her thigh. Safety has never been as intoxicating as the honesty in her eyes when she admitted she notices everything about me.

The game is getting more complicated than I anticipated. And for the first time in a very long time, I’m not entirely sure of my next move.

But I know one thing with absolute certainty: I’m not nearly done with Rowan St. Clair.

Not even close.

21

ROWAN

I wake up the morning after Vince’s date with Irina Petrov feeling like I’ve been hit by a truck. A sexy, confusing truck that touched my thigh under the table while he was supposed to be wooing his future Russian mob princess.

God, I’m pathetic.

I drag myself through my morning routine, trying not to replay the events of last night. Especially not the part in the car where his fingers slipped under my dress and?—

Nope. Not thinking about that. Absolutely not.

By the time I get to the office, I’ve convinced myself that today will be completely normal and professional. Like nothing happened. Like I don’t know what my boss’s fingers feel like against my skin.

Diane gives me her usual corpse-like nod as I pass her desk. “He’s waiting for you,” she says.

Great. Wonderful. Fantastic.

I take a deep breath, straighten my blazer (navy blue, sensible, absolutely nothing like the green dress that apparently makes Vince Akopov want to grope my thigh), and walk to my desk.

There’s a coffee cup waiting for me.

And next to it, a small note card.

My fingers tremble as I pick it up. The handwriting is elegant, precise.

I thought of you when I came last night.

Intense heat rips across my face, so scorching it’s a miracle my makeup doesn’t melt. I quickly crumple the note, glancing around to make sure no one has seen it. When I look up, Vince is standing in his doorway, watching me with that infuriating smirk.

“Good morning, Ms. St. Clair.” His voice is smooth as velvet, like not a single thing is amiss. “I hope you slept well.”

“Fine, thank you,” I manage, my voice impressively steady considering I’m on fire from the inside out.

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