Hart Attack

by Cristin Harber

  “Get me out of here.”

  He tilted his head, helping her into the backseat. “Don’t like the lights and cameras?”

  “What I really like is a chance to talk about something interesting with an interesting person. You, Gregori Naydenov, are an anomaly.”

  His blue eyes danced. “I could say the same thing about you.”

  “You seem real. Honest.” She almost choked on her lie. “Not every day a girl meets someone like you.”

  “Thanks for joining me tonight. I’m…” He pulled back, studied her, and grinned. “Real and honest?”

  “Am I wrong?”

  Greg shook his head. “Not at all.”

  “Prove it,” she challenged him. “Tell me something that shows that.”

  His grin hitched. “Something honest? I’ve never, not in my entire life, had a woman ask me to be real with them. They don’t want that. They only want to scratch the surface.”

  Or maybe she could work the angle that, if he wanted her, she wasn’t going to be a piece of ass he could do on the way to a party and drop off at the end of the night. Either way, she wasn’t spreading her lips or her legs for him. “Who are the women you’ve been hanging out with? Lord.”

  He laughed, his eyes tightening on her. “Vapid girls offering blow jobs in place of a real conversation.”

  She laughed. “That’s about as real of a thing as I’ve heard all night.” And it probably was. A woman knew when a man was interested. Really interested. Gregori Naydenov was. “What’s your angle with me?”

  “No angle. Never an angle.” He leaned back in his seat. “Just after tonight, and lately… it just gets old. That’s all. I plan to call Evan and thank him for introducing us.”

  “You’ve known me for thirty minutes, Greg. I should warn you, despite your being absurdly handsome and disgustingly wealthy, that kind of candor sets off warning bells for a girl. Wanting to thank someone for introducing us? You’re going to make me blush.”

  “Wow. With each passing second and every oddly negative compliment, I’m enjoying myself more than I have in a long time.”

  The driver said something to Greg and the partition rose. They pulled into traffic. For several seconds, Beth wondered if, despite his words, he’d get her in closed quarters and reevaluate how much more enjoyable a blow job would be than discussing ancient relics.

  But he didn’t. Instead, he pulled out his cell and swiped the screen several times. A moment later, he held it for her. “Egypt.”

  There was Greg with two men she didn’t recognize.

  “My brothers.”

  His brothers? What? This guy was opening up in a major way, and they barely knew each other. He sure as hell wasn’t acting like an international terrorist money launderer. “Vacation?”

  “Yes.” He grinned. “Though I didn’t use that word. Vacation sounds dirty, lazy to me. I’m an entrepreneur. So, if I’m not working, I must be dying. But… this was a fun time. With my brothers who I hadn’t seen in years.”

  Why was he passing on such personal information? “Have you been drinking?” She raised an eyebrow. “Or maybe lost your mind?”

  “Why?” His brow pinched.

  “You don’t know me. I could sell all these tidbits to some stock tips company—Gregori Naydenov retiring from wherever it is you work—and make some serious dough off of it.”

  “Are you going to?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  “But you don’t know me.”

  “True. But I like you. And I have no idea why other than we have a hobby in common. Doesn’t happen too often.”

  “Why not?” she asked.

  He shrugged, scrolling through the pictures and showing her various behind-the-scenes, big-money access to museums in Egypt. “People always want something from me. And you? I can’t see that you want anything.”

  Her stomach turned. She wanted a whole lot from him. His network. His accounts. Knowledge on how he laundered funds and hid wire transactions. But it was the first time she’d ever noticed a twinge of guilt, knowing that she was going to play him. “I’m very needy, just so you’ve been warned.”

  His eyes shone. “You’re also very beautiful. I bet you get whatever you need.”

  Her mouth gaped. “I…”

  He held her gaze then dropped his eyes to the phone. “And look at this one…”

  He told stories on the rest of the pictures in his phone, and for the first time ever, she questioned whether the Agency had gotten it wrong. This was a nice guy. Charming, well spoken, talked openly about his family, his job running what looked like a very legitimate, extraordinarily profitable company. This was not what she’d expected.

  Unable to explain the urge, she had no interest in hitting the after-parties and had a wild idea that could keep her mind occupied while maybe learning more than she would from party small talk. “I have an idea, but this is going to sound far more forward than it is.”

  His crooked smile flashed. “Interesting… an offer that’s not what it seems. Shoot.”

  “We skip the after-parties, and I show you something that you will love.”

  “Keep talking,” he encouraged, but she knew she had him. “At the Smithsonian?”

  She shook her head. “At my condo.”

  Beth watched his face react slightly. Surprise with a hint of… what? Something else.

  “See, Greg? You want to read into it. But I promise this has to do with work, not anything else.” Then she whispered, laughing and teasing, “Like blow jobs.”

  His laughter mingled with hers. “Definitely the most real person I’ve met in DC.”

  Ha, ha. Maybe the Agency had trained her well and it was just Roman she couldn’t get one over on.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Greg pocketed his phone and gave the driver the change in plans. It was refreshing to skip the stodgy after-parties where he behaved the same way, did the same thing, and saw the same people every time. The humdrum was killing him.

  Then there was Beth. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was nothing like his normal, and everything that could disarm him. Sweet, smart, and with curves that made him itch to get out of his tux.

  She was different. The women he knew swirled around DC, trying to find their next husband or land a photo in the Post’s Style section. Truth was, he thought he’d seen Beth at other events. Now he regretted not being introduced before.

  He could be himself, talk about interests without her eyes glazing over¸ and she made him laugh. A real, honest belly laugh. He hadn’t known he had it in him anymore.

  Maybe life had been too easy. That was certainly the case with women. He could joke about a blow job and his date-for-the-night would drop to her knees, almost instantaneously. But not Beth. She made fun of it. Almost making fun of him and that was… fun.

  “How’d you get started?” he asked.

  “At my job?”

  He was more interested in her answer than he should be.

  She hummed and bit her lip, maybe lost in thought. It didn’t seem she meant the move to be provocative, but hell…

  “Family tragedy. I lost someone who meant a lot. I worked for a company that took care of their own, and I was passionate about what I did. When life turned to shit, I threw my heart into it. Learned everything I could. Looked for every opportunity to excel. Then there was an opening, and I took it—”

  “The opening for what?”

  Her gaze drifted over him. “A project I wasn’t sure I could do at first. Didn’t know how to handle it. But… I figured out a way, I think.” She shrugged. “What about you?” She asked as if she cared about the answer.

  He smiled. “I’m boring. I like numbers the way I like history. It all tells a story; you just have to know where to look for it.”

  “And what kind of story are you looking for?”

  He leaned back, rubbing a hand over his chin. “Good question.”

  “Wh
atever story it is, it seems like you’ve done well.”

  He nodded. “It’s nice to be compensated for what you enjoy.”

  “So you… like what you do?”

  Wasn’t that the question he’d been struggling with for months? The answer was no. It had been no for a while. When he thought about where he’d come from, how he’d clawed his way to the top, it seemed to make sense—working with the dirtiest pigs on earth also meant earning the best paycheck possible. Coming from where he did, sharing stale loaves of bread for a week with his family just to survive, it hadn’t seemed morally repugnant to launder money. But now it made his skin crawl. He was literally helping the world meet its demise, holding the hands of terrorists, kingpins, and traffickers. But maybe his skin was crawling because he needed a little bump. His mouth watered for a little bit of blow.

  Greg eyed Beth. She didn’t seem the type who liked cocaine. He normally had a good eye for these things. Maybe he’d keep that pastime to himself for now.

  So he focused his mind. Did he like his job? No, he was a sellout to the highest buyer. But it had taken him years to realize that, and that realization meant he had evolved. A poor, third-world street kid who had become a financial king, attending presidential parties and earning the trust of gorgeous, well-off women who trusted him enough to be with privately.

  He could retire tomorrow and be better than fine. Greg rubbed his nose, bouncing back and forth between hating himself and wanting nothing more than to bury his head in beautiful distractions. Art, relics, history.

  And maybe even Beth.

  ***

  The night was still young, and Roman didn’t have to report to Titan HQ in the morning. Good, because he couldn’t get Beth, or her stupid job, out of his mind. Seriously, the girl was going to spread her legs because the Agency said so? Screw that. Just fuck that. No way would he care about her stupid-ass mistakes. His blood boiled. Frustration wrapped its ugly hand around his neck and squeezed until he couldn’t breathe.

  Forget that kiss. And the tears.

  Forget the damn girl.

  Didn’t work, and his truck had a mind of its own, because Roman looked up and the sign for the Pour House hung across the street. That bar was his comfort blanket. He could drink some beer, shoot some pool, and forget about Beth.

  A quick glance through the parking lot showed zero cars he recognized. Pressure still built in his chest. Going home wasn’t going to happen. He gritted his teeth. Drinking some beers it was. He parked and headed in through the brisk night. Wind swirled around him as he pulled the heavy door open.

  Neon lights and barroom noise soothed his soul. The familiarity comforted him even though the only recognizable face was the regular guy behind the counter. He maneuvered to a barstool and appreciated the simple fuckin’ fact that no one he talked to, no one he brought home, nothing in this damn bar would cry on him.

  “Hey. What’s your poison?” The bartender threw a napkin onto the well-worn bar. He glanced over Roman’s shoulder. “That was fast. Good-lookin’ trouble heading for you. On your six.”

  Roman raised his eyebrows. “Yeah?” Trouble, good looking or not, wasn’t on the agenda. Drinks and attitude problems were. “Give me a bourbon.”

  The barkeep tilted his head. “The brunette with fake tits from last week.”

  The woman who’d spent most the night trying to milk him for free drinks. Well, that wasn’t all she’d been trying for, but Roman hadn’t taken the bait. No reason, really. A tight body and a pretty face. She screamed no strings and was exactly what he wanted, but he hadn’t done anything about it. Tonight wouldn’t be different. As worked up as he was over Beth, the idea of another woman’s lips where hers had just been? He gnashed his molars.

  Not worth the aggravation. Or worth ruining the kiss he could still feel all the way to his groin. “Better make it a double.”

  “Roman.” Hands rested on his shoulders, and the brunette’s voice said she wanted to pick up where they’d left off.

  He turned around. Yeah, Fake Tits was still very attractive, very much looking for a good time. Her hands ran the width of his shoulders and back to his neck. He shrugged away. “Hey, you…”

  Shit, what was her name?

  “Ashleigh.”

  Right. Ashleigh. “Yeah, I know.”

  She laughed, shaking out her hair. “Okay.”

  Hovering, waiting for an invitation, he almost wanted this to be harder. If he had to work for it, maybe he’d want someone besides Beth—who made him work his ass off, then ignored him. He growled to himself and patted the empty barstool next to him. “Want a beer?”

  “I’ll take an appletini.”

  Of course. “Sure thing.”

  Beaming and shoving her tits up, she sat down. Their friendly, nosy bartender headed off with their order.

  Ashleigh made endless chatter while Roman’s mind was stuck on Beth. When he wasn’t reliving the seconds—and feeling like a pussy for doing so—he stared numbly at a television hanging over the bar. Every few minutes he’d nod, agree, whatever, and Fake Tits would continue. She took it as a thumbs-up for her to run her hands over every part of his chest and arms. The more she did it, the less he liked her, and that wasn’t saying much. Roman’s phone rang on the bar, Nicola’s picture popping up on the screen. Ashleigh unabashedly eyed it, and that just bugged the shit out of him.

  “My sister,” he said, not that he cared what Ashleigh thought.

  The visible irritation washed away. “No problem.”

  Right. He accepted the call. “What’s up, Nic?”

  “You kissed her! You kissed her!” Nicola squealed. “Seriously, Roman. You have got to tell me—”

  “Come on now. If you want the gossip, call your girl.”

  “I’m not trying to gossip. Just… I don’t know. I’m excited. Finally.”

  He laughed more at the irony than at her reaction. “Nothing to get excited over. You know Beth and me. Just a little bit of fun that got out of control. But no joke, I’m not talking to you about her.”

  Ashleigh cleared her throat, the irritation back and upped a few pissed-off points.

  “Where are you?” Nic asked.

  “Pour House.”

  She groaned. “Why?”

  “Needed to clear my mind.”

  “Don’t be a piece of shit, Roman. Come on.”

  “Hey, nothing going on here. Just grabbing a beer.”

  Ashleigh smiled, putting her hand on his forearm. “Can we get out of here?”

  “Hey!” Nicola apparently had heard. “Who was that?”

  He glared at Ashleigh. “Nothing. No one—”

  Women were manipulative. Well, sometimes. All the times? Well, not Nicola. Maybe not Beth. A vivid flashback of her fingers clawing into him, then her teary eyes. If that wasn’t manipulation, who knew what it was.

  “Roman Hart, I swear if you are grabbing some piece of strange hours after you kissed Beth, I will personally find you tonight and punch you in the throat.”

  He rubbed his eyes. “Easy there, killer.”

  “I’m serious. Don’t hurt her.”

  “Her? Beth?” He cackled. “Maybe you better get the whole story from your girl before you go around threatening throat punches.”

  Nicola stayed quiet long enough for Ashleigh to take two long sips off her light-green martini. Then Nic sighed. “Between you, the Agency, and her past, she has a lot going on.”

  That made him laugh again. “I think you’re wrong. Well, at least with me.”

  “You like her.”

  “Of course I do. She’s a good girl. She’s your friend, always around. Doesn’t mean anything more than that.”

  Ashleigh rolled her eyes. “Are you almost done?”

  Nicola growled. “Tell whoever that is to hit the road.”

  “Calm down, Nic.”

  “Look, Roman. There’s a lot you don’t know about Beth.”

  “Doubt that. Everything I’ve seen has been straightfo
rward.” Except that wasn’t true at all, and if there was more beneath the surface, not only did he believe that, but he wanted to dig and find out what.

  “Think what you want, big brother. You don’t know all.”

  “I know enough.” Not even close. He sipped his beer, ignored Ashleigh, and focused on the television. The eleven o’clock news was more interesting than both Ashleigh and Nicola. At least less work than them.

  “Cocky, cocky,” Nicola chided. She had to be shaking her head. “Alright, look. I just wanted to say I think you two are a good thing.”

  The television cut to footage from the White House, some big political shindig. If they could skip that crap and get to the sports—

  Wait. What did he just see?

  Blood rushed in his ears, and his pulse pounded in his neck. He put the phone down, narrowing his eyes. Beth? In a fancy dress on some dick’s arm? Roman had dropped her off at her condo a couple of hours ago. So that was… impossible.

  Absolutely fuckin’ impossible.

  “Hey!” He flagged the bartender. “You got DVR in this joint? Back that up fifteen, thirty seconds.”

  The bartender looked at the television, picked up the remote, and rewound. “You want the news?”

  “Yeah, man. Do it now. Back it up a minute or whatever, until you see—stop, stop. Hit play.”

  Sure enough, Beth was on a douchebag’s arm, smiling as she exited the White House. Roman pushed off his barstool, leaning toward the television as though maybe he was hallucinating. Nope. That was Beth, and the dude screamed piece of shit, money-coated dick.

  And the way she smiled? Fuck. That. Roman wanted to tear her off of him.

  Nicola called out. “Roman? Hello?”

  He picked up the phone back up. “She’s at the goddamn White House? And who the hell is that guy?”

  “What?” Nicola asked.

  “Who. Is. He?” Roman growled into the phone. Screw that. He’d find out on his own. “Never mind. Talk to you later.”

  “What are you—?”

  Roman hung up and glared at the screen. Anger wasn’t even the way to describe this. He could toss cars. Throw punches. He was ready to heave a bolted-down barstool off the floor and fling the thing out the door.