Into My Arms (3 page)

We’re going to touch.

“Katya,” he barks. “Come. Assist Miss Jacobs.”

My cheeks are flushed as Katya steps forward, his big, robust hand clasping my upper arm and I’m on the ground in less than a heartbeat. I don’t weigh much, but I’m not in the featherlight category either. That guy is strong.

And Z isn’t looking at either of us. Instead, he inspects the sky as if some secret is written in the stars.

Katya turns to his boss. “You have further need of me?”

No answer. Only a brusque head shake in the negative. Katya is back in the helicopter, and as I follow Z across the lawn, it takes off.

Katya isn’t exactly Mr. Comfort but having him there as a buffer did help ease the tension. Now I’m alone. With Z.

And still don’t know why.

“When will you be ready to brief me on the weekend’s meeting schedule?”

“Meetings?” he replied, lowering his head to give me a sidewise glance.

“Yes, you brought me here for a reason. One I’m still waiting for.”

“Come, Bethanny.” He sets a brisk pace and I have to trot to keep up.

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

He shoves his hands deep into his trouser pockets. “That is your name, is it not?”

“But no one calls me Bethanny in real life. Not even my parents.”

“I like it,” he says firmly, as if that’s all there is to say. “We have much to discuss tonight, but first Koroleva needs to be returned to the water.” He presses his thumb to a screen and the front door swings open. We step inside and dimmer lights come on, revealing a cavernous space decorated in a spare mid-century modern style. There are wraparound windows that must hold jaw-dropping coastal views come daylight.

“This way,” he says, the sharp staccato of his shoes ringing out over the stone floor. There is an aquarium opposite a large stone fireplace. It’s empty and he gestures that I’m to release my charge.

I pour Koroleva into a tank roughly the size of an Olympic swimming pool. I’m kidding, but not really. Pretty sure I could swim laps in here.

“Drink?” He walks to a bar and opens up a freezer hidden behind wood paneling. “I favor Stolichnaya Elit.”

“I’m not sure what that means.” He isn’t asking me to sit. Do I make the assumption? Or wait? God, I hate this dynamic, the fact that he holds all the cards and all I’ve held tonight is that fish.

“Vodka made from pure Himalayan water and Russian winter wheat.”

He studies my face, as if checking for a reaction. Should I look interested? Or blasé, as if midnight vodka cocktails are my norm?

“The glass container is handblown,” he continues.

I elect for honesty. Maybe that will set the tone. “It probably costs my share of a month’s rent.”

“Three thousand a bottle,” he answers matter-of-factly.

What? How will I swallow that? How does
he
swallow that? Isn’t Grey Goose good enough? “Correction, more than my share of the rent. I do need that drink, just to absorb the information.”

He pours a healthy shot into two clear glasses and takes one, warming it in his palm before setting it back down. “If vodka is too cold, it freezes the taste buds and you will not get an adequate sense of the flavor. If it is too warm, the flavor grows less discernible.” He strides to a black leather couch.

I walk to the bar and pick up the glass he left for me. “Do we cheers or something. What’s the saying?
Nostrovia
?”

“
Na Zdorovie
.” He sits and crosses a foot over his knee, removing his tie with a smirk.

I take a sip—maybe that will grant me patience—and glance around the room. It’s the same as Zavtra Tech, sleek, cold, modern, no hint that it’s a home that’s ever known joy or laughter. The mantel above the fireplace is devoid of photographs and an unbearable sense of aloneness hollows my chest.

“Stop,” he orders.

I freeze despite the growing impulse to slam it back out of spite.

“You’re not a vodka drinker.” A statement not a question.

“In college vodka cranberry and I were good buds—”

“I don’t mean drinking like an American.”

I glare at his blatant mockery. “Um, I am an American, ergo, I drink like an American.”

He ignores me in favor of his own glass. “Vodka, real vodka, should not be mixed with juice, or ice, or tonic. First thing, smell.”

I roll my eyes, taking a petulant sniff, and pause, surprised. “It doesn’t have that medicine cabinet smell, more sweet and…sort of grainy?”

“Good.” He catches my gaze for a long moment before abruptly breaking the connection. “Now raise it to the light. What do you notice?”

I lift my glass, the decadence and luxury already giving me a buzz. “There’s a pale tinge. Almost blue.”

“Yes. Now, finally, the most important thing—taste.” His gaze fixes to my mouth and I’m unable to look away. Watching him watch me is a form of intoxication all in itself. “Let a drop slide over the tip of your tongue.”

I sit and do as he commands and the flavor isn’t what I am prepared for, nothing harsh or bitter.

“Hold it on your palate and breathe deep through your nose.”

Great idea in theory. I’ll choke. But I try. He is driving me nuts and yet I bite back my flash of irritation at his innate arrogance because I’m intrigued by what’s going to happen next. Finally, I swallow. “Oh…that’s really smooth.”

“Yes, drinking vodka is the second best thing you can do by yourself.”

I sputter my next sip as his brows lift in restrained amusement. Is he trying to…flirt? “Who else is joining us here?” I dab the corner of my mouth and pray that my face isn’t revealing total bewilderment. It’s taken me over twenty years, but I’m good at keeping up my own mask. He doesn’t have to see how much of an unsettling effect he has on me.

“No one.”

Again comes his strange magnetic stare, the one that feels like a physical caress, conjuring a hot rush of heat up my neck. “So it’s just you, me, and your staff?” Would it be gauche to tell him about my app idea? Maybe. But then again, he’s a businessman; he might appreciate a bold approach, and Besties
is
sort of a genius idea, a way for woman to—

“No staff. I gave them time off.”

My pulse quickens as a momentary haze clouds my vision. “So it’s just you and me?”

“For the weekend.”

Wait, is that my imagination or does his impersonal tone crack, unveiling the merest trace of uncertainty?

“You are free to leave any time, Bethanny.” He gestures to the phone on the coffee table. “Take it. Katya’s number is programmed. If you desire to leave, he will fly you out. No questions asked.”

My prickles of unease fade but don’t disappear as a vague heat dances over my skin. “But you haven’t answered mine. You promised earlier that you would explain everything.”

His heavy-lidded gaze is bright as topaz and just as hard as he drags a hand through his thick mantle of hair. “Will you stay tonight? No matter what I say?”

“Of course not. You could tell me five thousand things that would make me leave in a heartbeat.”

“Yes, good. Very good.” He laughs shortly, mouth quirking as if I’ve just managed to please him in some mysterious way. “That is why.”

“Why what?” I whisper. Something twitches in my stomach, a radiating ache that spreads lower, loosening my thighs, heating my center. The idea of pleasing him should be the furthest thing from my mind, unless I’m pleasing him with my brain to get start-up funds. I’m not here to serve as entertainment. Still, there is no denying my panties are suddenly wet with an instant, unexpected, and almost painful arousal.

A palpable charge emanates from him, a current of invisible lightning. “You are here because I…I want to see if I can touch you.”

A
few hundred dollars’ worth of vodka splatters over my kitten heels. Glass shatters. It’s probably Swarovski crystal, a far cry from my Target glassware. Every muscle in my body tenses. This isn’t amateur hour. I wanted to have face time with the big boss, and I can’t impress if I’m acting like I’ve got ten thumbs for fingers.
Apologize with a witty joke. Go fetch a dish towel, broom, or—

“Sit, Bethanny.”

It’s not until that moment that I realize I’ve stood. “If you insist on imitating my parents by using that name, I want to know what yours call you?” I snap. “Aleksander?”

“Nothing,” he answers without a second of evasion. “They don’t call me anything.”

“Oh.” I sink back down to the couch, tugging down the hem of my skirt and crossing my heels. “It’s okay. I’m not on speaking terms with mine either.”

He is quiet so long that I have time to make a careful study of the way his suit jacket is vaguely rumpled and how that thick shock of black hair hangs without falling at the edge of his right temple. At last he stirs, his voice far away. “My mother and father are dead.”

Oh God, way to blunder into that one. “I’m so sorry.” I stand again, this time determined to clean the broken glass, anything but appear to snoop at his personal life.

“I don’t wish to talk about them,” he says firmly. “Sit.”

“Are you always this pushy?”

“Are you always this jumpy?” His eyes flash and he looks as if he is ready to snarl more, but instead locks his jaw and loosens his tie. “And yes. Pushy is my default. Apologies. Please, sit.”

I sink back to the couch, knees pressed together. “Okay, back to the business at hand. You said that you, you know, that you…”

Does that quirk to his mouth mean he enjoys my discomfort?

“I want to touch you. This request is most irregular and you are under no obligation to comply in order to keep your job. Anytime you wish to leave, call Katya and your departure shall be immediately arranged. If that is the case, you may continue to work for Zavtra Tech as long as your performance remains excellent, and if you prefer to be shifted to another department, that can also be arranged. Tonight is not some cheap attempt at coercion.”

“Nevertheless”—I tuck a lock of hair behind my ear—“there’s no denying that you hold an awful lot of cards in this deck.”

He smiles wryly. “Smoke and mirrors.”

“Down to specifics, then. What kind of touching are we talking about? Hand holding?”

He ignores my sarcasm, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I have a friend in my employ, a trusted friend—”

“Brandon Lockhart.” Bran is the fiancé of one of my good friends, Talia, and he also works at Zavtra Tech. He and Z apparently spent a few formative years together at an elite boarding school in Australia.

“What about Bran? Was this his idea?”

He inclines his head in assent. “Yesterday, I received some news about my past. Bad news. Lockhart suggested that spending time with you could help.”

I wait but he doesn’t elaborate. There aren’t many people in the world who can sit as comfortably as Z in total silence.

At last I can’t take it. “Help with what?”

“I desire you physically.” He ignores my question, delivering the statement as simply as if he’s telling me that he prefers pepperoni pizza or happens to be an Aries. Except that his gaze has dropped to my breasts, lingering long enough for them to respond, full and hot, my nipples tightening into two aching peaks.

“You want to have sex?” My track record with guys hasn’t been great. All work and no play makes Beth a dull girl. It’s been a while since I’ve hooked up, and by
a while
I mean over a year. I’ve become something of a sexual agnostic, not sure I’d ever get laid again.

“I want to give you pleasure and try to take pleasure in turn.” He lets out a coarse breath, raking a hand through his hair, causing it nothing but further disarray. “I’m almost twenty-five, Bethanny. I have not known the touch of a woman in seven years.”

I gape in disbelief. “But you are…”
Sexy. Rich. Intelligent.

And a monk?

“We all have our demons, do we not?” he says in a quiet voice.

I close my eyes. It never takes much to hear brakes squeal, feel, really feel the gut-deep dread that the speeding car was going to hit us. A scream. A bang. Then silence except for the radio playing Taylor Swift and the dawning realization that the blood covering me wasn’t mine.

I force my eyes open. I’m not at the scene of a car accident, but at a billionaire’s oceanfront mansion. The scent of my best friend’s lifeblood doesn’t linger in the air.

“We do,” I murmur.

He gives a short nod. “I can see the truth stamped on you.”

“What?”

“Grief. Anger. The same things eating my insides.”

I rub the thin scar on the side of my face. “I focus on my work.”

“Yes, I know something of that too. It’s a way to survive.”

“Yes, stop feeling and nothing can touch you,” I say almost to myself.

“See!” He snaps his fingers. “You and I aren’t so very different.”

“Um, except for the part where I don’t own a billion-dollar business, helicopter, or oceanfront property.”

“I don’t want to debate such things.” The strange moment we shared is replaced by brisk efficiency. But too late. I’ve glimpsed a flesh-and-blood man behind the impassive mask and am intrigued and a little turned on. Scratch that. A lot turned on. It’s as if he’s cast a spell and I can’t even blame the vodka because it’s puddled on the floor instead of racing through my veins. He is ten feet away and his words
I physically desire you
lap against my skin like a hungry tongue.

I am still not exactly clear what he’s after, what the stakes are, but I’m game to wander down the rabbit hole and see what awaits in wonderland.

“Very well, I’ll stay.” The words drift through the air, bright with delicious possibilities.

His gaze heats me despite the room’s cool temperature, up and down, then down and up as if he’s covering me in soft, warm kisses. “Good.”

“Now what?” I kick off my heels and tuck my feet against me. It’s being a little familiar but, hey, might as well break the ice sooner rather than later.

“Up the stairs, the third door to your left, is a bedroom designated for your specific use. Everything should be to your liking. In the closet is a choice of swimsuits. Meet me at the hot tub on the patio in ten minutes.”

I glance down at my business wear. “Swimsuits?”

He stands and walks toward the broken glass, collecting shards. I stare for a moment, realizing he’s dismissed me before I turn and walk away. My heart races even as my brain flatlines. All the doors on the second level are closed except for the third on the left. Does he employ elves that obey his every command? How could he have had any idea that I’d come tonight? Nothing makes sense.

The room is big, almost as big as my two-bedroom apartment. The walls are painted a sea-glass blue and the king-sized bed is laden with oversized ivory pillows, the thick comforter soft and inviting. Exhaustion should be overwhelming seeing as it’s after midnight, but apparently one can survive on ramen fumes, ice cream, and adrenaline, or maybe it’s sexual tension propelling me forward.

I open the closet and gasp. So many clothes, all with tags. Cute outfits. The exact sort of thing I would buy. I check a size and recheck it again. Eight. A rush of emotion hits me. My size too.

How could he…?

But would he…?

Wait. Hold the phone.

Okay, this is officially weirder than the weirdest of the weirds. I turn back to the bed and change of plan. I need to lie down for a second. There’s that cell I can call if I’m too unnerved, and this situation is definitely borderline. I cover my face with my hands, peeking at the ceiling through my fingers. He’s more than watched me on that little camera of his. He’s studied every inch of my body, memorized my shape to perfection.

Z doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who yields to impulses very often. What to me appears like a random evening is more likely than not the by-product of a carefully scripted adventure. Who knows how long he’s plotted this?

And is that flattering? I sit and stare at the window, my own face reflected back in the glass like a see-through ghost. Why me?

I ask this question a lot. Why did I survive the car accident that killed my best friend? Why did my parents steal my identity? Now add to the list—when a billionaire decided he needed to touch another human body, why did he choose mine?

Maybe I should be more outraged or at least freaked out.

Instead, my eyes shoot to the closet and the three hanging swimsuits, each smaller than the next, and then to the closed bedroom door. This is the sort of night for stepping out of comfort zones and heading down the rabbit hole. If I go and meet him by the hot tub, who knows what will happen? But should that be my decision, one thing is as clear as the crystal glass I shattered across his living room.

Nothing will ever be the same again.