Page 22 of His Son's Brid
"Wasn't planning on getting involved." He grins. "But boss? You might want to wipe that hungry look off your face before anyone notices."
I force my expression neutral and take the champagne he's offering. Around us, guests are mingling, laughing, doing the social dance that's required at these things.
Aurora's talking to an older man now. Distinguished, silver hair like mine, but older, expensive suit. He touches her arm, says something that makes her smile, and jealousy spikes through me so sharply that I nearly crush the champagne flute.
Who the fuck is that?
"That's interesting," Viktor murmurs.
"What?"
"The way you're looking at that old guy like you want to feed him his own teeth." He's grinning. "You've got it bad, boss."
"Shut the fuck up."
But he's right. I'm jealous. Actually jealous of some random man talking to a woman I've known for two days.
Get yourself together.
Aurora excuses herself from the conversation, weaves through the crowd. She's not coming toward me—too obvious—but she's moving in a direction that'll bring her closer.
Casual. Deliberate.
Smart girl.
She stops to examine a flower arrangement, her back to me. I wait thirty seconds, then drift over like I'm admiring the same flowers.
"Fancy seeing you here," she says quietly, not looking at me.
"You're everywhere I go. Starting to think you're following me."
"Or you're following me."
"Maybe." I lean in slightly, just enough to catch her scent. Something floral and expensive. "You look incredible."
"You clean up okay yourself." Her voice is steady, but I can see the pulse racing in her throat. "Didn't expect to see you here."
"Business meeting with Petrov. You?"
"My father's associate, remember? I'm here because he couldn’t make it."
My father.
She's mentioned her father twice now. Both times with that same careful tone, like she's choosing her words.
"Your father," I say. "What does he do?"
She finally looks at me. There's something cautious in her eyes. "Business. Import-export."
Liar.
I know that tone. That answer. It's the same one I give when people ask what I do. Vague enough to be true, specific enough to sound legitimate.
She's from my world. Has to be.
The question is, whose daughter is she?
"There's a private garden," she says, changing the subject. "We can talk there without interruption."
