by Zoe Blake
My brow furrowed as I gestured to the surrounding restaurant guests. “Please, Harold. There are people trying to eat. Let’s not disturb their meal with your troubles.”
Harold swiped at his swollen eyes, grimacing when he once again used his broken hand. Some people just never learn. “Their name is Dylan Prescott. They live in Lincoln Square in Chicago. I sent the money in two boxes.”
Replacing my gun in its shoulder harness, I rose and buttoned my suit jacket. As I stepped around the table, Harold grasped at the hem, leaving a blood-smeared smudge before my man jumped in to restrain him. “Please, Mr. Morozov. Don’t kill me. I have money! I’ll pay you whatever you want!”
Shrugging into my heavy, long wool coat held by the maître d’, I turned up the fur collar to prepare for stepping out into the cold biting wind of a Moscow winter. “This was never about the money. It’s about the principle. No one takes what’s mine.”
With a nod to my men, I pivoted on my heel to leave as they dragged Harold through a back door of the restaurant. Later, they would put a bullet in his head and sink his useless body down into the dark, ice-cold depths of the Moskva River. He would become just another American tourist victim. For now, my men would keep him in a secure location until I had recovered the money. In my line of work, it was always a mistake to kill someone before their usefulness was completely over. I may need more information from them later. Of course, there was no point in telling Harold that… let him suffer thinking any moment would be his last.
I texted Dimitri and Vaska, telling them to expect me by tomorrow.
It was time to track down this Dylan Prescott and demand he return my property.
Chapter 3
Dylan
Chicago, Illinois
I glanced at my phone as yet another couple walked around the marble-topped kitchen island. They weren’t serious buyers. The home was over five thousand square feet with four full baths, one half bath, and three bedrooms located right off of Lakeshore Drive in the uber-expensive near north side neighborhood. At a listing price of over four and a half million dollars, it was safe to say whoever finally bought it wouldn’t be carrying around a knock-off designer purse with Chanel spelled with two n’s.
Not that I faulted them for wanting to get a peek at how the other half lived. That was partly the reason why I became a real estate agent. It was fun to waltz through these large open spaces with their elegant artwork, polished Macassar ebony hardwood floors, and Italian marble bathtubs and imagine it was all mine.
When I was still in community college, I used to convince my best friend Carinna, who lived just across the hall from me, to get dressed up and go to the Sunday morning open houses downtown. We thought we were so slick, slowly walking around the elegant rooms asking what we thought were intelligent questions about property taxes and natural lighting. I know now we stuck out like sore thumbs to all those real estate agents. We hadn’t fooled them for a second.
The woman turned to face me. “Does the kitchen get plenty of natural light?”
I pressed my lips together, smothering a laugh. I nodded. Some things never changed.
Larry was already gone. This was his property listing. When it sold, he would bring in close to three hundred thousand dollars in commission fees. I, on the other hand, wouldn’t see a penny of that. Despite being the one who took all the photos, prepared the floor plan brochures, set up the listing, scheduled the open house, called potential clients, and even arranged for the catered trays of fresh fruit, macaroons, and champagne. Nope, not a penny. As Larry put it as he tried to look down my blouse this morning, I was getting paid in experience.
There was just this couple and another one upstairs, looking at the bedrooms. Thankfully, the open house was almost over, and I could soon pack up and get back to my apartment to deal with the mess my uncles had dropped in my lap.
I scrolled through my texts. There was nothing from Uncle Harry.
There was a text from Oliver, my so-called boyfriend, although he was barely even that. Didn’t someone have to actually date and speak to one another occasionally to officially be girlfriend and boyfriend? He had canceled on me so many times over the last three months I had forgotten what he looked like. Last night was supposed to be our big reconciliation. We were supposed to get back together and finally start acting like a real couple, but of course, he had stood me up.
I had waited at the stupid laser tag place, which had reeked of body odor and old hot dogs, for over an hour. Laser tag hadn’t even been my idea. Why on earth would I want to run around with a bunch of obnoxious teenagers shooting a toy gun for my Saturday night? I mean, I was twenty-five now. Shouldn’t I have a boyfriend who wanted to take me out for a nice dinner and a bottle of wine? Or at least a romantic movie?
I needed to officially break up with him. For good this time, no more second chances. No more allowing him back in my life after he ghosted on me for months. Carinna hated him. I couldn’t blame her. Oliver was kind of obnoxious. He laughed at his own jokes and was a bad tipper, something I always took offense at, having been a server. He had been my attempt at dating a ’decent’ guy, one whose idea of committing a crime was getting away with an expired parking meter. I had wanted to show myself that I could fit in and be boring and normal like everyone else, that I wasn’t like the rest of my family, that I didn’t have to succumb to a life of crime.
I still believed that was true. My problem was trying to prove it through a man, but I was done with that and done with men.
They were too much trouble.
From this point forward, I would focus on my career.
Texting Oliver back, I reluctantly agreed to meet him tonight for dinner. He promised he wouldn’t be late and that he would take me to a proper restaurant this time. I should tell him to his face that I never wanted to see him again. Besides, he owed me a dinner out. It was the least he could do after standing me up, and it was far better than the microwaved ramen noodles that waited for me at home.
The man interrupted my train of thought. With his hands in his pockets, he rocked back and forth on his heels. “So what are the property taxes like?”
Before I could answer, the chime from the security system sounded at the front door.
I held up a finger. “Will you excuse me for just one second?”
Maybe I would get super lucky, and it would be a serious couple interested in buying the house. Wouldn’t that be something else if I stole the listing out from under Larry? He’d still find a way to cheat me out of my half of the commission because I was just a lowly agent trying to learn and he was the head of the brokerage firm, but it would be nice to show him up.
Smoothing my skirt and pasting a fake smile on my lips as I entered the massive front hallway, I prepared to give my usual warm real estate greeting. I threw open the door. “Welcome to—”
The words died on my lips.
The man standing in the doorway was… huge. Not over seven feet tall or four hundred pounds huge, but just plain huge. He was like a wall of muscle. It was obvious he wore an expensive custom-tailored suit under his gray wool overcoat. Armani would be my guess, because I couldn’t imagine anything off the rack fitting over those insanely large biceps of his.
As my shocked gaze took in all of his six foot five height and probably about four foot wide shoulders, I noticed the tattoos peeking out from his shirt collar and cuffs and the heavy silver band rings on his fingers. In my past, I’d known many men who’d worn rings like that as makeshift brass knuckles.
From the close-cropped hair and beard to the tattoos and massive body, he looked like a sinister crime boss who’d been squeezed into a suit by his attorney to make him more presentable for a jury. I should know; I’d spent half my childhood in the gallery of courtrooms.
My gaze traveled to his face. My mouth fell open as I made some kind of inarticulate, high-pitched squeak. The man was gorgeous. He had the nose, jaw, and cheekbones of a Roman gladiator chiseled in stone. Even the scar s
lashed across his upper lip couldn’t take away from the beauty of his full mouth. And his eyes! No man on earth should have eyes that clear bright blue and piercing.
As I continued to stand and silently stare, one black eyebrow slashed into an arch over his mesmerizing blue gaze. I blinked several times, then licked my lips as I tried to swallow past my dry throat. His gaze moved to my mouth, which sent a shock of white-hot lightning straight down my spine.
Words?
What are words?
How do I speak them?
I stood there struck dumb, unable to force my brain to work.
Finally, the Roman-gladiator-statue-come-to-life spoke. “I’m looking for Dylan Prescott. His office said he would be here.” His voice was a low, dark baritone like the deep sound of a cello playing a mournful lullaby. His accent was also heavily Russian.
Russian!
Fuck, this man was Russian, and he was looking for me.
That couldn’t be a coincidence.
Years of survival skills kicked in.
I backed a few steps away. He had asked for Dylan as if I were a man. I would just go with that.
I cleared my throat. “I’m… I’m sorry. You just missed him. He left… for… for the airport. Some overseas trip. We don’t expect him back… ever.”
The man stared at me for several heartbeats. I had this strange sensation he was staring into my soul. Before he could respond, the couple joined us in the hallway.
The woman held out her hand. “Thank you so much, Ms. Prescott, was it? It’s not quite big enough for what we are looking for.” That was a lie, of course.
At any other time, it would have amused me to think about the cute little rental they were probably returning to, as they shared a couple of takeout hamburgers and split an order of fries and dreamt of a future filled with caviar and champagne. It’s what I had done a thousand times.
I clung to her hand. “Are you sure? There are some great financing options and interest rates are at a historic low.”
The woman wrenched her hand from my grip. “Sorry, no.” With a startled look, they both scurried past the silent giant and were gone.
The man rubbed his jaw as his fiery blue gaze slowly slid over me from head to toe. In his thick Russian accent, he asked, “How can you be Dylan? Dylan is a man’s name, not a proper name for a beautiful woman.”
I snatched a curl of my hair and twisted the long length around my index finger, a nervous habit. “My dad wasn’t around a lot when I was a child. He was a big Johnny Cash fan who apparently thought the song ‘A Boy Named Sue’ made for great parenting advice, so he named me Dylan.”
Stop talking.
Stop talking!
First, I couldn’t speak and now I couldn’t shut the hell up. Why? Why in the world was I telling this man all this? Plus, I just admitted that I was Dylan Prescott, not that the cat wasn’t already out of the bag. But I didn’t have to confirm it.
I waved my arm behind me, gesturing wildly toward the curved staircase. “We’re not alone. There is another couple upstairs. So you should probably leave. Now.”
The corner of his mouth lifted in what I could only presume was supposed to be a smile. Fascinated, I stared at the white scar across his lip. The slash wrinkled slightly as his mouth moved. Realizing I was ogling his mouth, I averted my gaze. His chuckle told me he had noticed.
He took a deliberate step into the hallway and closed the door. It sounded like in the movies when they slam the jail door shut and there’s the heavy sound of impending doom. The front entrance was once more cast into shadows, deepening the harsh angles of his face. He shrugged out of his gray wool overcoat and tossed it onto the hallway bench.
He then stalked forward like an animal on the prowl. He tilted his head to the side, then once again his gaze slid over me like an unwanted caress. He sank his teeth into his lower lip after licking it, as if he were savoring the taste of me. Finally, when he spoke it was in a low, menacing purr. “I’m not going anywhere, Dylan.”
Normally, people pronounced my name with a short harsh ‘duh’ followed by a high-pitched mosquito-like whine, ‘laaaan.’ Not this man. With his Russian accent, the ‘d’ sounded softer and longer—‘dee ’—followed by a gentle ‘lun.’ It was the most feminine my name had ever sounded.
My nails dug deeply into my palms as I clenched my fists, trying to quell the strange mix of desire and fear that was coursing through my veins. The sharp pain brought my brain back into focus. “You have me at a disadvantage. You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
Would he tell me his name? I couldn’t imagine what it would reveal, and there was no way of even knowing whether he gave me a fake one, but still I waited, holding my breath.
He bowed his head slightly, keeping his intense sapphire gaze on me. Placing a palm on his chest, he said, “Ivan Avelovich Morozov at your service.”
Other than sounding like the perfect name for a Russian super villain, it didn’t ring any bells.
My ass bumped against the hallway table as I backed away from him. “What do you want, Ivan Morozov?”
He reached to unbutton his suit jacket, showing how casually at ease he was in the luxurious space. “I want you—” he paused, and my heart stopped, “to give me a tour of the house.”
My cheeks flamed with both heat and embarrassment as illicit erotic scenes crashed around my brain during that tiny pause. So much for focusing.
The house? He wanted a tour of the house? Of course he did. It was an open house after all. Maybe he wasn’t here to murder me after giving me a thousand mind-blowing orgasms? Maybe he had picked up one of the hundreds of business cards I had left around the city, and that’s how he knew my name. Maybe it was just a coincidence that the very same day I received two boxes filled with dirty money from Russia a clearly wealthy man covered in tattoos from Russia appeared, asking for me. It was possible.
My voice broke as I gestured down the hall. “Why don’t I show you the kitchen first?”
Yes, the kitchen, where there were lots of knives for protection. An image of me throwing a knife and it bouncing off this man’s enormous chest like a plastic toy ran across my mind.
Again, he bowed his head slightly, as if in deference to my wishes. It was a courtly, gentlemanly gesture at odds with his brutish demeanor. “After you.”
There was no way I was turning my back on this man. I plastered my fake real estate agent smile on my face. “No, after you.”
He took a step forward. I was trapped between the table and his steel wall of a body. He was so dangerously close, I could smell the peppermint and coffee on his breath. Ivan leaned down, breaking the one-foot distance between our heights. “I insist, Dylan.”
Dee-lun. There it was again. The sex on a stick covered in dark chocolate way he had of saying my name.
Sliding my left foot to the side, I shimmied past him and scurried down the hallway.
His measured footsteps echoed on the marble tile as he slowly followed.
Careful to keep the island between us, I inhaled a deep breath through my nose, trying to calm my racing heart. I focused on my memorized speech. “As you can see, it is an extremely spacious kitchen designed by the German manufacturer Bulthaup with their signature floating wall, which hides all the utensils and pans. They also equipped it with a La Cornue range and an Everpure water purification system.”
As I prattled on, I leaned against the countertop and slipped my hand behind my back. Waiting until he turned to admire the view through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I eased open the drawer I knew contained the knives. It slid on a silent, well-greased track.
Ivan spoke without even bothering to turn around. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
Playing the innocent, I asked, “Do what?”
He pivoted, rooting me to the spot with his icy glare. “Touch those knives. It would do you no good and only make me very angry.”
The thinly veiled pretense he was only there for the open house was
dropped.
My heart pounded in my chest as I scanned the room, trying to remember where I'd set down my phone. It wasn’t on the counter. Dammit, I must have left it in the hall.
The couple!
The last couple looking at the house was still upstairs. Seeking safety in numbers, I bolted for the back stairway off to the side of the dining table.
Ivan gave chase.
Chapter 4
Dylan
I burst through the master bedroom door with such violence the couple turned with a start.
I laid a palm over my chest to help calm my heavy breathing as I plastered a fake smile on my face. “Did I get a chance to mention that in addition to the beautiful spa-like freestanding Jacuzzi tub, this master bathroom also has heated floors?” Fear and breathlessness made my voice high-pitched and forced.
Before the couple could respond, Ivan appeared.
I could feel his threatening presence behind me but refused to turn. The couple’s eyes widened, and their heads tilted back as his large body crossed the threshold. I started when his hands rested on the tops of my shoulders. His grip wasn’t painful, but it was powerful enough to send a warning.
Unlike mine, his voice was deep and even, showing no signs of strain. “I’m sorry to say the house is no longer for sale.”
I twisted my shoulders to try to break free of his grasp, but he held firm. Clenching my jaw, I snapped through clenched teeth, “Yes, it is! Please stay. Let me show you the other bedrooms.”
His warm hands shifted down to my hips. They were so large he easily spanned my entire waist. Ivan leaned forward so I not only heard but felt the hum of his response against the sensitive skin of my neck. “No, it is not. I want the house very badly. I’ll pay any price to own it. In fact, I’m already envisioning myself inside it.” His fingers flexed and squeezed my flesh, punctuating each intense word.
Oh. My. Fucking. God.
Desperate, I tried to break free again, this time by surging my body forward, but he wrenched me back against his hard chest. There was a surge of fiery energy that pooled deep inside my belly. I refused to believe it was desire. It was fear, a deep primal fear causing me to react to his touch and his seductive words.
