Asher

by Shandi Boyes

  “Ready?” Mr. Fletcher asks when I saunter toward him, my steps spirited from his amorous glance. “It’s time to bring home the bacon.”

  “If Nikolai’s rap sheet is anything to go by, we’re about to bring home the entire pig.”

  Growling at my assessment, Mr. Fletcher opens the frosted glass door he is standing next to. Testosterone smacks into me hard and fast when I step into the spacious room. Four heavily armed guards fill each corner of the square-shaped space, but they aren’t the cause of the virile scent depriving the air of oxygen. It's the man with glacier blue eyes and the distinct aura of danger.

  Nikolai is sitting at the end of a large boardroom table. His bare feet are resting on the table top, and his arms are crossed in front of his slow-rising torso. He’s lazed back in an office chair, relaxed and without worry. If his ticking jaw hadn’t announced he spotted our presence, I would have assumed he was sleeping.

  For a man facing a seven-year prison sentence, he’s way too cocky for my liking. Confident clients are the hardest to work with. When their dominant personalities clash with Mr. Fletcher's commanding persona, more times than not, it turns into a battle of the alphas instead of maintaining the integrity of the game. I hope to be proven wrong this time around, but usually, my intuition is spot on.

  Once we're joined by three junior associates from our firm, Mr. Fletcher braces his palms on the tabletop. “Mr. Popov, my name is Carmichael Fletcher. I’m a defense attorney at—”

  “I know who you are.” Nikolai’s deep, accented voice is molten enough to singe my veins. It's gritty and raw, with a touch of sexiness I can’t help but notice.

  After returning his feet to the floor, Nikolai raises his head. Air snags halfway to my lungs when our gazes collide for the quickest second. Our eye contact is brief, but long enough for me to declare he has the beauty of a shark: visually appealing, but with a dangerous edge that warns you not to get too close.

  “I’m not interested in anything you’re selling.” Nikolai’s tone indicates today isn’t his first meeting with Mr. Fletcher. “Wasn’t interested ten years ago; sure as hell ain’t interested now.”

  My heart beats in an unnatural rhythm when he slants his head to the side and locks his arctic gaze with mine. He stares at me for mere seconds, but it feels like the sun circles the earth many times. His gaze is familiar, yet concerning.

  “Unless you’re offering an incentive to sweeten the honey pot, the five minutes Officer Jasmine negotiated with Carmichael for the hope of slipping between his sheets is up.”

  I gasp, shocked by his suggestion that we negotiate. My interests are piqued on discovering how he believes I can sweeten the honey pot, but wanting to be professional, I harness my curiosity—barely.

  Taking my silence as a rejection, his tapered gaze strays back to Mr. Fletcher. “The door is that way.” His jerked chin boosts his dismissal.

  Mr. Fletcher remains standing proud at the end of the boardroom table, not the slightest bit threatened by Nikolai’s slitted gaze. Nothing against Mr. Fletcher—he’s a brilliant defense attorney, and an even better mentor—but he must be insane. Nikolai’s vast police file shows he’s not a man to mess with, and his scowl is deepening by the second.

  Worry burns my esophagus when Mr. Fletcher alters his plan of attack. “Now is not the time for stubbornness, Nikolai. You were positively identified in a line up. Your fingerprints were found on the shattered bottle lodged in the neck of the claimant, and the DA has video evidence of the alleged assault.”

  I can only assume his last declaration is an assumption, as no video data was noted in the chain of evidence. With how many surveillance cameras line the Vegas strip, some evidence could have been recorded, but with Nikolai’s family’s reputation so fierce all his previous arrests were swept under the rug when they reached preliminary charges, I doubt the footage will remain uncorrupted for long.

  “So?” Nikolai slumps into his chair, confident he’s holding the trump card. “Are you advising me to be worried?”

  “Yes,” Mr. Fletcher replies without pause. “Unless you’re a foolish man, you should pay careful attention to every word I speak. I am your only guarantee of leaving this room without shackles cuffed to your wrists. The courts close in less than an hour. If you don’t do everything I suggest, you’ll be holed up in here the entire long weekend instead of sniffing crack from a hooker’s tits while fucking another in the ass.”

  My heart slips into my stomach. I’ve heard him quote similarly ballsy statements the past three months, but this one felt different. It was more personal, and, in all honesty, sleazy.

  I tuck away my bother when Nikolai locks his eyes with mine. His gaze is brimming with condescending amusement. “What do you think, Ahren? Should I follow his every word to a T?”

  When Mr. Fletcher attempts to answer on my behalf, Nikolai slices his hand through the air, not only interrupting Mr. Fletcher, but also my heartbeat.

  “I want to hear what she has to say, considering my decision will impact her as much as it will me.”

  My brows stitch, confused by his statement. How will his decision affect me?

  Spotting my bewilderment, Nikolai smirks a grin that does stupid things to my insides. “If I agree for Carmichael to be my counsel, his celebration will entail a part of your body wrapped around his cock, so I’m interested in discovering if that is something you want, or something you’ve already had?”

  I anticipate my colleagues to react with shock, so you can imagine my bewilderment when they don’t bat an eyelid. The only one left breathless is me. I thought the mutual attraction firing between Mr. Fletcher and me was well-concealed. Clearly, my assumptions were wrong. Even a man as conceited as Nikolai has spotted the attraction brimming between us. I honestly don’t know if I should be pleased or panicked by that notion.

  While snickering at my slack-jawed response, Nikolai snags a cigarette pack out of his jeans pocket. His arms flex when he lights the cancer stick dangling between his quirked lips.

  “I knew I remained shirtless for a reason,” he mutters, noticing the direction of my gaze. “Up here is for the thinking. Down there's for the dancing.”

  He taps his index finger on his temple. Thankfully, he leaves the second half of his statement for me to decipher on my own.

  I shift my eyes to the side, mortified he caught my perverted gaze. He finds my pitiful defense maneuver amusing. His heavenly gruff chuckle rolls through my veins like liquid ecstasy, hitting every one of my hot buttons.

  “I always thought red was the color of the devil. Now I’m not so sure.”

  The heat roaring through my body doubles when his eyes scan my inflamed neck and cheeks. After tossing his cigarette pack across the table to me, he sinks into his chair before taking a substantial draw of his now lit cigarette.

  As smoke billows out of his nose, he stares at me as if I am the only person in the room. For years, I’ve dealt with looks of pity, but his heavy-hooded gaze has nothing to do with empathy. His watchful stare bombards me with reckless thoughts—desperate thoughts.

  I want to deflect his attention, but I’m not sure I know how. So, instead, I stand frozen, stunned that a man I hardly know can muddle my usually clear head. But I stand across from Nikolai now, I’m mindless with a need so potent, I’m having a hard time recognizing myself.

  When Nikolai’s tongue darts out to clear away a drop of ash from his bottom lip, the cocky gleam in his eyes triples. “Not yet happened, but you’re not against the idea.” His jaunty tone strengthens his interpretation of my non-relationship with Mr. Fletcher. “Trust me, we’d have a lot more fun.” A bold wink seals his pledge.

  I straighten my spine, determined to show I’m not the naïve imbecile I’ve been portraying the past ten minutes.

  Spotting my determined stance, his icy gaze sparkles with challenge. He silently goads me, daring me to protest his insinuation I want to get freaky with my boss.

  I use his ignorance of the rules as a
deflection. “This is a government building. You’re not allowed to smoke in here.”

  Unmoved by my sneer, he takes another hefty suck on his cigarette. Once his lungs are brimming with smoke, he growls, “This building is situated on grounds I own in a town I rule. I can do whatever the fuck I want.” His teeth graze his bottom lip before he adds, “I can even do you if I want.” His last sentence is so soft, if the throb in my sex didn’t intensify, I wouldn’t have known he said it.

  When the glint in his eyes turns blinding, I cross my arms in front of my chest and drop my gaze to the tabletop. I’m not here to engage in a battle more brutal than the Cold War; I’m here purely in a professional capacity.

  Unappreciative of the early white flag in our battle, Nikolai drums his knuckles over the exact spot I’m staring at, soundlessly requesting my focus back to him.

  “Smart and beautiful,” he praises when I return my eyes to his. “Who would have known.”

  The long chain of smoke spilling from his quirked-with-amusement lips burns my eyes, but I keep my arms glued to my chest, refusing to bow to his arrogance for the second time in less than a minute. Once bitten, twice shy.

  As silence encroaches us, the air thickens. The tension teeming between us is so white hot, you’d swear we're the only two occupants in the room. It's as if God sparred an angel against a devil to see who reigns supreme. It's a pity God failed to get the memo that I’m anything but saintly.

  My eyes dance between Nikolai’s when he murmurs, “There are devilish thoughts in the most angelic minds, Ahren.” The gleam in his eyes switches to one I don’t recognize before he continues, “I can’t wait to hear yours.”

  Although shocked he read my inner monologue, I don’t get a chance to showcase my bewilderment. I’m too busy calming my heart rate from Michelle unexpectedly whispering in my ear, “What’s an Ahren?” I was so fixated on identifying the glint brightening Nikolai’s eyes, I failed to notice her sneaking up on me.

  It's the fight of my life to drag my eyes away from Nikolai, but when I do, I notice the green flecks in Michelle’s hazel eyes are barely visible since her pupils are swamping her cornea. Her lips are cracked from running her teeth over them, and her cheeks are hollow and white. She appears just as confronted as I am about meeting a mafia prince in the flesh.

  Although, I’m confident her insides are quaking with unbridled fear. Mine aren’t entirely based on distress—I’m also aroused. Don’t ask me to swear on a Bible, but I’m certain feared excitement is the cause of the heat creeping up my neck. As is the shameless glance of a blue-eyed devil.

  “He’s called you Ahren numerous times now, so it can’t be an accidental slip in name,” Michelle adds on, promptly reminding me I never answered her question. “Do you know what it means?”

  Before a syllable is fired off my tongue, Nikolai’s sexy voice trickles into my ears. “How far are you willing to go to secure me as your client? Will you dance with the devil? Or sleep in Satan’s bed?”

  I return my eyes to Nikolai, anticipating his focus to be locked on Mr. Fletcher. It isn’t. His eyes are arrested on me, and they're as dark and haunting as ever.

  I remain quiet, dazed. My response makes me look daft, but I have no plans to alter it. His eyes reveal what his negotiations pertained to; I’m just unwilling to fall for his latest power trip.

  Reveling in my muted response, Nikolai’s tongue runs over the small cut on his top lip. I swear, his pupils expand when the tangy flavor of blood overwhelms his taste buds.

  “I’m tempted as fuck to discover how loud you scream, but are my desires potent enough to work with this vyperdusch? I already have one lawyer breathing down my neck, do I really want another?” Nikolai summarizes more to himself than me.

  I tighten my arms over my chest, praying it will hide my body’s inane reaction to discovering he finds me tempting. My lack of sleep must be playing havoc with my mind, as I’ve never been so poorly misguided before.

  Mr. Fletcher snaps my attention back to the task at hand. “You know I don’t play fair, Nikolai. Fair is not a word in my dictionary. Justine was brought in to entice your less astute head. Clearly, her presence has piqued your interest.”

  My jaw slackens as my eyes rocket to Mr. Fletcher. I knew I wasn’t hired solely because of my perfect bar scores and exemplary attendance record, but still, having him admit it in front of a client is shocking, and if I’m being totally honest, demoralizing.

  “But Justine isn't just a knock-out; she’s the shrewdest member of my team. If you don’t want to sleep in a cell this evening, she is your signed guarantee that will not happen. Not maybe. Not possibly. Will not happen," Mr. Fletcher continues, dampening the anger bubbling in my veins.

  “I have an attorney. I don’t need another,” Nikolai replies with his slitted gaze rapt on Mr. Fletcher, his voice the most vicious I’ve heard.

  With a rueful grin revealing he’s about to play his most lethal hand, Mr. Fletcher slides a piece of paper across the table to Nikolai. “Perhaps this will change your mind on who you want representing you.”

  If I could tear my eyes away from the veins thrumming in Nikolai’s neck, I’d be enticed to discover what hand Mr. Fletcher just dealt, but since I’m stuck in a panicked trance, I keep my eyes locked on Nikolai, equally appalled and confused by my ditsy response. My reaction can’t be helped. The same peculiar feeling I got when walking into our secure location this afternoon is once again knotting my stomach.

  After what feels like an eternity, Nikolai drops his gaze to the sheet of paper he is clutching. Hostile silence deprives the air of oxygen as he reads the text on repeat. The longer he scans the document, the tighter his grip on the paper becomes—as does the tension in his jaw.

  Certain he has the facts straight, he raises his head and locks his eyes with me. His gaze is more ruthless than any I’ve seen. I stand taller, vainly trying to portray I’m not intimidated by his glance.

  It’s all a ruse. I’m shaking so much I feel like I’m on one of those vibrating machines at the gym. You know the ones that guarantee to jiggle the cellulite straight off your thighs? I won’t need to visit my personal trainer for a month with how much I’m internally shaking. That is how wrathful Nikolai’s glare is.

  After scraping his hand over the stubble on his chin, Nikolai’s eyes stray to Mr. Fletcher. The volatility in them doubles when he warns, “If this is found to be untrue, the smile you’re wearing will drop two inches when I slit your throat and watch you take your last breath.”

  His voice gives no indication his threat was meant to be playful. He is as upfront as his warning tone relayed.

  Not the least bit intimidated by Nikolai's threat, Mr. Fletcher guarantees, "You have my word: what I’m presenting is true."

  My eyes lower to the piece of paper when Nikolai dumps it on the tabletop. Although it's scrunched into a heap, I can still read one sentence inscribed on it.

  Erik Monstrateo—FBI Agent No: 1183429

  Air traps in my throat, stunned Mr. Fletcher just dug the grave of a former colleague and friend. Erik left Schluter & Fletcher the month prior to my arrival in Las Vegas, but his essence is still imbedded in the bones of his office—my office.

  “Okay.”

  Nikolai stands from his chair. His meekest movement has the armed guards sitting on edge, cautious of his every move.

  “You have one chance to prove your worth, Ahren. If all charges against me are dismissed, I’ll sign you on as my counsel.”

  Mr. Fletcher strives to interrupt Nikolai, but he continues speaking, foiling his endeavor to assert I’m only a first-year intern. “No misdemeanors, plea bargains, or community service. All charges are to be dropped without record.”

  “And?” I query when his demands seem unfinished.

  I don’t know the man standing in front of me—before reading his dossier during my travels to Las Vegas PD, I’d never heard of Nikolai Popov—but something in his eyes tells me his list of demands are not yet fina
lized.

  “And. . .” Nikolai draws out his one word as if it's an entire sentence.

  My pulse thuds in my ears when he saunters around the table and heads in my direction. His swagger is pompous and reeks of attitude. I’m certain a man of his stature, much less looks, wouldn’t lack confidence, but I’m still stunned by the sheer amount of self-assurance beaming out of him. He is so cocky, I doubt he needs assistance with his latest debacle. We just walked straight into his trap, gifting him a new set of toys to play with.

  My breaths turn ragged when he stops to stand in front of me. His eyes are even more exquisite up close, as are his sculptured face and shirtless torso. The three-day-old stubble on his chin can’t dampen the razor-sharp cut of his jawline, and his lips appear as soft as a cloud.

  When he leans in to sniff my hair, Mr. Fletcher signals for the guards to move in. I raise my hand into the air, requesting for them to stand down. Years of studying criminal masterminds awards me with the knowledge that this is a tactic Nikolai uses to siphon out the weak. If I fail this test, he will move on to the next set of pawns waiting in the wings, contending for his attention.

  Furthermore, I’m not afraid of him. He intimidates me more than any man before him, but there’s something deep in his eyes that stops fear from being my first response.

  The scent of cigarettes and alcohol lingers in Nikolai’s wake when he drags his nose down my neck before trailing it along my collarbone. His attention not only mists my skin with sweat, it moistens my panties as well.

  I pop my eyes back open when I lose the heat of his touch. He stares straight into my eyes, his gaze unwavering and without reservation. I've always wondered what victims of crime felt in the hours leading up to their assault. Now I know, because I just experienced it firsthand.

  While tracing his index finger over the goosebumps mottling my wrist, Nikolai’s eyes stray to Mr. Fletcher. “If you get within an inch of her, I’ll cut off your cock and feed it to you.”

  Since his eyes return to mine so quickly, he fails to see the response his warning elicited from Mr. Fletcher. I guess a man who dishes out threats like Halloween candy doesn’t need to see Mr. Fletcher’s response to know it exists. He can smell the fear leeching off his skin. It's potent and strong, nearly as intoxicating as Nikolai’s ruggedly virile scent lingering in my nostrils.