Page 2 of A Secretary for the Bratva Boss
I've seen handsome men before. Dated a few, kissed more. But Anton Ismailov doesn't register as handsome—he registers as dangerous.
Sharp cheekbones cut like they were carved from marble. A jaw so defined it could draw blood. His mouth is full, sensual even, but it looks like it rarely smiles—like softness is a language he doesn't speak. And his eyes. God, his eyes. Winter steel lazing through beautiful hazel, pale and piercing, framed by dark lashes that should look pretty but instead make him look predatory.
They lock onto me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle, like he's cataloging every detail, every flaw, every secret I've ever tried to hide.
My throat goes dry.
He's beautiful in the way a blade is beautiful—all clean lines and lethal edges. The kind of man who makes you forget to breathe, forget your own name, forget that you're standing in his office looking like a drowned rat.
Awareness crawls up my neck. The kind that makes my pulse jump and my palms sweat and every nerve ending wake up and pay attention.
"Miss Brooks." He says my name like he's testing the shape of it, his accent curling around the syllables. "You're late."
Focus. I need to focus.
"I'm sorry. The train was delayed, and then I—" I gesture vaguely at my boots, my ruined tights. "It's been a morning."
His gaze drops to my feet, then travels back up slowly. Lingering. Not quite amusement. Maybe curiosity. Or darker, making my breath catch and my thighs clench involuntarily.
He takes his time. Traces the line of my legs, the curve of my hips, the damp fabric clinging to my chest. When his eyes finally meet mine again, there's heat there—banked but unmistakable.
My pulse hammers in my throat.
He moves to his desk, gestures at the chair across from it. "Sit."
Not an invitation. A command, delivered in that same tone he used on the phone, and my body obeys before my brain catches up. I sink into leather that costs more than the car I had to sell two months ago—and try not to fidget under his gaze.
He doesn't sit. Instead, he rounds the desk, leaning against it, arms crossed. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Close enough that his scent hits me—clean and expensive with an undertone of smoke and cedar.
It does things to me. Things I have no business feeling in a job interview.
"The position is temporary," he says. "A week, possibly two if we need additional coverage through New Year's. You'll handle correspondence, scheduling, and any other tasks I require. The hours are long. The work is demanding. And discretion is not optional—it's mandatory."
I nod, trying to focus on his words instead of the way his forearms flex when he shifts his weight. He's rolled his sleeves to his elbows, and the corded muscle there, the dusting of dark hair, the thick veins that run from wrist to—
Stop it.
"I do that. I'm good with organization, and I'm used to long hours. My last position—"
"I read your file." He picks up a folder from his desk, flips it open. Not just my résumé—my transcript. My stomach drops. "Two years as an administrative assistant, excellent references. Currently pursuing a degree in accounting." His eyes lift to mine, and the impact is physical. "Honor roll every semester. And yet you haven't finished."
Defensiveness crawls up my neck. "I take what I can afford. Two classes a semester, sometimes one if money's tight."
"You've been enrolled for six years."
"Yes."
"At this rate, you'll finish when you're thirty."
My jaw tightens. "Then I'll finish when I'm thirty."
He studies me, head tilted slightly, and I swear his mouth curves. Just barely. Just enough to make my stomach flip.
"Most people would have given up by now. Taken the associate's degree and called it good enough."
"I'm not most people."
"No." His voice drops, rough and low. "You're not."
