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“Get her back to the club, and I want you to follow Gavriil,” I order. “Find out if the rumors about him fucking someone at the Ember Club is true.”
Konstantin raises an eyebrow. “Of course.”
He nods and disappears.
I grab my keys and head to my meeting with Petrov. On the way, I drive past the Ember Club. It’s sleek, tasteful, with a sleek black awning and polished brass accents. The windows are tinted, offering nothing to the street but reflection.
Then everything slows.
A woman bolts across the street.
My brakes screech. Tires burn. My chest jerks forward, and the SUV lurches to a stop.
She stands frozen, caught in my headlights like a wild creature. Her eyes meet mine—they are hazel, blazing. Her body is lean, with long legs cased in denim, with a pink cotton shirt caressing her torso and hair a dark brown halo. Fuck, she’s beautiful, and even standing staring at me in a dazed shock she has a graceful poise.
I roll down the window, heart slamming against my ribs.
“You really have to be more mindful,” I say. “It would be a real shame for someone as beautiful as you to end up as a hood ornament.”
She flushes. “Sorry.”
“Maybe use the crossing button,” I advise her.
“Will do.” A honk of a horn makes her head snap around before she turns, then rushes away, leaving her image branded into my brain.
I sit there, gripping the wheel. Her face, her form—every bit of her electric in my veins.
All I can think is,Who is she?
The question haunts me all the way to Petrov’s house.
The meeting’s mechanical. My brain’s stuck somewhere else. The woman I nearly ran down with the hazel eyes—eyes I can’t forget. It’s been a long time since a woman has affected me like this. I don’t let myself think about the past, the ghosts that shape our future. I’m on my way back to the hotel when my phone buzzes.
It’s a message from Konstantin. I’ve found her. Name’s Tara Craft. Sending a photo.
The photo from Konstantin comes through, and I freeze—it’s her. The woman I nearly ran over, and who is embedded in my mind.
She’s the club manager, is a physicist working to get her PhD.
I stare at her photo.
Change of plans. Follow Tara Craft.
Looks like we might just meet again after all, Tara Craft. But this time I won’t be behind a windshield.
3
TARA
My childhood home smells like roasted garlic, lemon zest, and tension.
The hallway’s filled with the clatter of dishes and the thud of heels against hardwood floors. My mother, Carla’s voice carries from the kitchen, sharp and focused, giving Mark a list of last-minute errands like it’s a mission briefing.
I step into the doorway and pause, taking in the scene. My mom, her blonde hair twisted up in an elegant clip, crisp white shirt tucked into slim black slacks, is in full control mode. The kitchen gleams behind her, every surface polished, a bowl of lemons on the counter that I know she won’t use but insists makes the place look “fresh.”
“Hi, baby.” She sees me and doesn’t even pause. “Did you bring the china?”
“Right here,” I lift the bag with both hands, carefully wrapped plates cradled inside.