Page 181 of Sexting His Assistant

Roman watches me process that. “Two minutes,” he says. “In public. On the dance floor. I’ll keep my hands exactly where they should be.”

“How noble.”

“Practical. I assume you bruise easily, and Luka Kazan appears attached to his possessions.”

My face goes hot with anger. “I’m not his possession.”

Roman tilts his head slightly. “No?”

“No.”

For some reason, that makes his smile fade.

“Good,” he says. “Then prove it. Dance with me because you want answers, not because you are waiting for his permission.”

I hate that the line works.

I don’t trust him for one second. But I also hear Luka’s voice in my head telling me to stay near the table, and suddenly I feel like everyone is moving me around a board I never agreed to play on.

I place my glass on a passing tray. “Two minutes,” I say.

Roman offers his hand.

I look at it like it might be poisoned.

But then I take it.

He leads me onto the dance floor with the ease of a man used to being allowed into rooms where he is not wanted. His hand settles at my waist exactly where it should, no lower, no tighter. His other hand holds mine lightly.

Annoyingly, he’s a very good dancer.

He moves like he hears the music and the room at the same time, guiding without making it obvious. I keep my spine straight and my face calm because I refuse to look frightened while dancing with a man Luka clearly hates.

“Talk,” I say.

Roman’s eyes remain polite. “You are direct.”

“I’m annoyed.”

“Yes, I gathered that.”

“You were with Alina Karelin.”

“I know Alina.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“No. It was an accusation.”

I hold his gaze. “Fine. Were you with her?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“She asked to meet.”

“I don’t believe you.”