Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 93463 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93463 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
“Why does that sound like you’re lying to me?” I lean closer.
I nod at the waitress to bring drinks.
And then it hits me. Feck, is she even old enough to drink? “How old are you?”
“Twenty-two,” she says, too fast, like she’s rehearsed it.
Little liar.
I growl under my breath. “Aye, try that again.”
She blinks. “Twenty?”
That might be a lie too. But I decide it’s good enough. Barely. She’s old enough to drink. Old enough for more than that, but still…
She’s twelve years younger than I am.
Good luck, bad luck? Which is it again?
“You have a keeper?” I ask.
She frowns. “A keeper? What is that supposed to mean? Tell me that’s something Irish and not chauvinistic.”
I lean back a little. “A keeper. Someone who watches over you. Protects you. Keeps you in check.”
She pauses, like she doesn’t want to answer. Then she sighs and gives me a small nod.
“I guess. I have brothers,” she admits. “Too many fucking brothers.”
I growl again. That filthy word doesn’t sound right coming from her mouth. Her lips are too soft, her face too fucking pretty.
“You ought not curse like that,” I tell her.
Her cheeks flush pink. Embarrassed, and slightly flustered.
That adorable little chin juts out again. “Why the fuck not?”
I lean forward, push her drink toward her, and take her hand in mine.
I run my thumb slowly over the top of it, watching her squirm in her seat.
“Because I told you not to.”
She doesn’t pull away.
She meets my gaze and then looks away again, her eyes wide and lips slightly parted.
Sweet trouble, I think.
Then, “Sir,” a voice breaks in behind me.
I don’t even look.
I’m here mapping out the Kopolov family. I’ve got guards stationed in every direction. Eyes everywhere. Spies. Plants. Watchers.
I hold up a hand, wordless, signaling to give me a minute.
“Sir,” the voice says again, more insistent now.
A clearing of the throat. Another warning.
What the actual fuck?
No one interrupts me. I don’t allow it. And now he’s risking his fucking life by interrupting me.
“Wait,” I say over my shoulder, before I turn to her.
“You shouldn’t be here, babydoll,” I whisper. “This isn’t a place for a girl like you. Someone could hurt you. Someone could take advantage.”
But I don’t say the rest out loud.
Someone like me.
“Protect me, then,” she whispers quietly, without really asking. “Just like you did before.”
And fuck, I will. I fucking will. But I don’t know if that’s the right thing here.
What the actual fuck am I doing?
“Sir,” comes the voice again from behind me, more insistent this time.
I turn and level him with a look. “Interrupt me one more feckin’ time,” I growl. I don’t need to finish the sentence.
He blanches, bites his lip, then takes a step back.
“It’s urgent, sir,” he croaks, nervous now.
“I’ll be with you in a minute.” I turn back to her. She’s watched the exchange with interest.
“What’s your name?” she asks softly.
“James,” I tell her.
It’s not exactly a lie. James is a version of my real name. Close enough. Even if I told her the full thing, she wouldn’t know who I was. I’d have to tell her my nickname, too, and I’m not doing that.
“That's a lie,” she says, a hint of a smile teasing the corners of her lips. “But it's nice to meet you, James. Where are you from?”
She’s a sharp one.
“Ireland,” I say, watching her carefully.
She snorts. “I’d have to be dumb to not realize you’re Irish with a brogue like that. What part of Ireland, James the Liar?” She smiles. “The powerful, scary Irish liar.”
I can't help it. I smile.
I never smile.
So why the fuck am I smiling at her?
“The part near the water,” I say evasively, grinning at her, knowing full well I haven’t narrowed it down at all. I wish I didn’t have to hide. I’d love to tell her I’m from Ballyhock, the most gorgeous little coastal village just outside of Dublin.
And I miss it. I miss it so much, my heart aches.
“A better answer, I guess. What brings you to Moscow?” she asks sweetly.
“What gives you the impression I’m about to tell you anything true about me?” I shoot back across the table.
She leans toward me. There it is again, that faint, floral smell. Subtle, addictive. And her gaze is locked on mine.
“And what’s your name?” I ask, expecting her to lie like I did.
“Zoya,” she says. For some reason, I know she’s telling me the truth.
And just like that, my entire world comes to a screeching halt.
Fuck.
“That’s a beautiful name,” I tell her, trying to keep my poker face, trying to make sure she doesn’t hear the record screech in my head.
“Sir,” the voice behind me says again, louder now.
But now I know what’s so urgent.
She’s Zoya feckin’ Kopolova.
The youngest daughter of my enemy.
And she’s walked straight into my trap.
I’ve never wanted to let someone go so badly in my life.