Page 32 of Cruel Obsession

Anfisa pauses before an imposing oak door. Her bony fingers wrap around the handle, but before she turns it, she fixes me with a stare that pins me in place.

“The boss values honesty,” she says, each word deliberate. “Remember this.”

The boss.

She says it like the man is some kind of god.

Probably an asshole.

The door swings open, and my stomach drops through the floor. Because the man casually lounging behind the desk is…

Holy fucking shitballs!

It’shim.

The man who walked out on his own wedding. The man whose face has haunted my dreams for days, though I’d rather die than admit it. Arkady Laurov rises from behind a desk that could double as a small yacht, and the air in the room changes—becomes charged, dangerous.

I know that face. Those ice-blue eyes that cut through pretense. That strong jaw shadowed with just the right amount of stubble. Those tattoos climbing up his throat like black wings, disappearing beneath his crisp white collar, only to reappear at the edges of his jaw.

Recognition flares in his eyes the moment they lock with mine.

“Miss McLeod,” he says, my name rolling off his tongue like he’s tasted it before. “Please, sit.”

Anfisa slips away, closing the door behind her. The sound of it closing might as well be a prison gate slamming shut.

I force my legs to move, settling into a chair upholstered in butter-soft leather. My skirt rides up slightly. I tug it down, hyperaware of his gaze tracking the movement.

“Is that how you dress for an interview?” he says.

“I- I’m sorry, what?” I blink in surprise.

Did he really just say that?

Did I just apologize?

He rises and circles his desk until he’s leaning against it, too close to me. “Your skirt. It’s too short for a professional interview. And that shirt is too tight.”

Heat crawls up my neck. “And your manners are too poor for a professional employer.” The words escape before I can trap them behind my teeth.

Stupid!

Stupid, stupid!

I need this job.

But instead of anger, something like amusement flickers across his face. “Touché.” He pushes off the desk and moves to a cabinet, extracting a crystal decanter filled with amber liquid. “Drink?”

“No, thank you,” I say, watching his hands—strong, capable, adorned with a single signet ring. The kind of hands that take what they want. And God help me, just the thought of that has something tingling in my panty-zone. “I don’t drink when I’m working.”

“First smart thing you’ve said today.” He pours himself two fingers of what I’m guessing is very expensive whiskey, but doesn’t drink it. Just holds it, studying me over the rim. I try not to press my thighs together because that tingle is flaring into sparks. “So. The registrar from my wedding wants to be my housekeeper. Interesting coincidence.”

My pulse jumps.

Fuck. Of course he recognized me. Why wouldn’t he recognize me?

“Is it a problem that we’ve met before?” I keep my gaze steady, even though I can feel my pulse picking up.

“That depends.” He sets the untouched drink aside. “On why you’re really here.”