Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 120165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
And that’s when I read the little silver letters that said Radimir Aristov.
My stomach plunged like an elevator with its cables cut. I suddenly knew where I’d seen him before. On the TV, tugging his waistcoat straight as he told a reporter that his property company was a legitimate business, and that he was a legitimate businessman. I knew why two of my customers had fled when he’d walked in: because they were fucking terrified of him.
Radimir Aristov. Some said he was the city’s most powerful criminal since Capone. That nothing happened in Chicago without his say-so. That the foundations of his buildings were dug extra deep, because that’s where he put the bodies.
His aura made sense to me now: dangerous and irresistible. Power.
I looked up at him. Now that I was looking for it, I could just make out the shadowy shapes of tattoos under his white shirt. A Russian mob boss. A Russian mob boss is in my store.
His eyes hardened again. He knew I’d recognized him; he could see it in my face.
There was a shrill electronic beep as the card reader accepted his card and I jerked and nearly dropped the thing. I kept my eyes on the counter as I put down the card reader, picked up the book and put it in a bag. Except my hands were shaking and the bag wouldn’t open and every time I tried to push the book inside, it caught on the edge and—
His hands came into my view and closed around mine. I stared at the backs of his hands, my heart hammering. His hands dwarfed mine, his fingers strong and thick. He could kill me. Just wrap them around my neck and— But he was surprisingly gentle as he guided my hands and slid the book into place.
He released me and picked up the bag and I tentatively met his eyes again. He nodded to me, his expression unreadable. “Goodbye.” Then he hesitated. “Miss…?”
“Hanford,” I managed.
“Goodbye, Miss Hanford.”
It was strangely, wonderfully, old-fashioned: I felt like I should be in a corset. I was so off balance, I gave it a go. “Goodbye...Mr. Aristov.”
He headed towards the door. I closed my eyes and my whole body slumped in relief. It’s over. He’s going.
But as he walked away, I felt an...ache. That heat he’d lit in me, the memory of how his eyes had softened for a second. And the ache tugged at me.
I felt my mouth open.
Don’t be an idiot, Bronwyn. Just shut up. In a few seconds, he’ll be gone.
He put his hand on the door handle.
“Mr. Aristov!”
Everyone in the bookstore except Radimir turned to look at me, and it went utterly silent. Then Radimir turned, one eyebrow raised, as if no one had ever dared to shout after him like that before. He tilted his head a fraction of a degree: a warning.
What are you doing, Bronwyn? He’s a freakin’ mobster.
I swallowed. “It’s—It’s a trilogy. So if she likes the first book…”
For a moment, he just stared at me, as if willing me to weaken and drop my eyes. But when I choose to dig in, I can be stubborn. I lifted my chin and stared right back.
I thought I saw the faintest hint of a smile play across his lips, as if he was impressed with me. Then he nodded curtly, and he was gone.
2
RADIMIR
It started with a weakness.
I was on my way to a meeting with the mayor and I’m never late. But it was Lina’s birthday in a week and she’s one of the few relatives I have left in Russia. So, when I’d seen the little bookstore’s window lit up bright, I’d told Valentin to pull over. Two minutes, I’d told him. I’d be in and out and still be on time to meet the mayor.
Except...it hadn’t worked out like that.
I cursed under my breath and marched out of the store’s orange glow and back into the darkness. The wind hit me full force, gusting under my coat and up my back, but I ignored it. Whatever cold America threw at me, I’d known colder.
I walked faster but it didn’t matter. However fast I walked, I couldn’t leave her behind. She was there, in my mind.
Tight green ribbed sweater, the lines arcing and curving as they traced the shape of her breasts.
Blue jeans that hugged the ripe curves of her hips.
Copper hair that fell in soft waves past her shoulders, gleaming gold and scarlet as it caught the light. A shock of color in my gray, cold world.
None of that mattered. Lust was lust, a need that could be sated with any of the women who circled our family like lipsticked, long-legged spiders. What mattered were her eyes. Big and liquid and the soothing green of a virgin forest. So welcoming, from the moment she saw me, despite me being a big, scary bastard. So warm, no matter how hard I’d glared at her.