Page 19
We’re standing in a windowless room I didn’t know existed.
It’s shabby in some places and bare in all the others. There’s a single rickety table in the center, ringed by six chairs. Five of them are already occupied by men I’ve never seen before.
They’re all big. Not as big as Lukas, but close. Their suits are dark and thick. Their faces are blank.
“Sit,” Lukas orders.
He points at an empty chair in the corner. It’s pushed back from the table. Clearly not meant to be part of the conversation.
I do as he says.
Lukas takes the remaining chair at the head of the table. The second he does, the atmosphere in the room morphs. The men straighten. Their attention sharpens.
“Report,” Lukas says.
One of the men starts talking. He’s got a thick accent I can’t place. Eastern European, maybe. Based off Lukas’s phone call yesterday, I’d assume Russian? I don’t know for sure, though. Nor do I know what he’s talking about. He’s rattling off numbers and names and locations that mean nothing to me.
“—shipment cleared customs Tuesday. No issues. The Bratsk route is holding.”
Lukas nods. “And the terminal?”
“Operational. Rymbayev’s crew finished ahead of schedule.”
“Good.”
Another man jumps in. This one is younger, with a wicked scar running down his left cheek. “The situation in Red Hook is getting a bit testy, sir. We need to discuss?—”
Lukas holds up a hand. “In a moment.”
That’s all it takes. The scarred man shuts his mouth and doesn’t open it again.
Lukas’s gaze cuts to me. “Ms. Everett.”
Every head in the room turns.
“Y-Yes?” I stammer out. “Er, yes, s-sir?” I hope to God he’s not about to ask where Bratsk is or what Rymbayev should do about this whole Red Hook fiasco, because I have no clue what any of that means.
“Why aren’t you taking notes?”
I freeze. My hands are empty. I don’t have a pen. I don’t have paper. “I didn’t know I was supposed to?—”
“You’re my assistant,” he reminds me in a frigid monotone. “What did you think you’d be doing?”
My face burns. The men are all watching me now.Judging. I can feel it.
“I d-don’t have my… I didn’t get to go to my… my desk, Mr. Lazarev. I can’t?—”
Grimacing, he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a small leather notebook. The fountain pen that was sitting on his desk yesterday is clipped to its spine. He sets both of them down on the table next to him and looks me dead in the eye.
His instruction is obvious: I am to get up and walk over to retrieve them.
I feel every single pair of eyes on me as I cross the room. Everything about me reminds me how female I am, how vulnerable, how alone. Heels tapping, skirt swishing. Why’d I wear a skirt today? Dumb, dumb. My hair long… the thin silk of my blouse… the bra strap falling off of one shoulder beneath it… My wrists, when I reach out to grab the notebook from next to Lukas’s elbow, look fragile enough for him to engulf in a single hand and snap like matchsticks, if that’s what he wanted to do.
And as for him… He’s all male. King of the jungle. Huge in his chair, consuming a half of the room all to himself, radiating his scent and his power, both equally intoxicating, almost toomuchto be believed.
Lukas doesn’t budge an inch as I approach. He just watches me. His gray eyes track down to my heels. Back up—slower now—over my hips, my waist, the rise of my chest.
He lingers there. Then he meets my eyes.
