Page 45 of Forced to Marry the Russian Bratva

“So far,” he glowers.

A tense silence falls between us.

“Look, I can’t just let my clients walk away because you won’t let me show them my face!” I say at last, throwing my hands up in frustration.

We're both breathing hard now, standing in the middle of the office, tension crackling between us like electricity. But I see I might have driven a point home, because Valentin’s starting to look conflicted.

“Come on.” I soften my tone to coax him. “Let me have one meeting. TriCore is legit. I’ve checked them out thoroughly.”

“But—”

“And we’re meeting in a very public place.” I really drive the point down.

The fight itself is exciting, and I wait for what he’ll say with bated breath. With Valentin, every conversation gets the blood flowing, my heart pumping, and my mind going.

Valentin is quiet for a long moment, taking all the time in the world as he thinks. Finally, he sighs.

“Fine.”

Well, that’s a surprise.

“Really?” My voice comes out squeaky, like a kid at Disneyland.

“But I'm coming with you,” he adds quickly.

“What?” I screech. “Like a chaperone?”

“Sure, if that’s what you want to call it,” he shrugs.

“No way,” I shake my head. “How is my client even going to take me seriously?”

“That’s not my problem now, is it?”

“Valentin, I swear, if you mess this up…”

“How will I mess this up? Unless…if you find I’m too distracting to pull off a perfect pitch?” He grins at me.

“Oh, please. Nothing comes between me and my pitch,” I snap back, even though the way he stares at me sends a familiar heat rushing down my neck.

“Really?” His voice drops to a dramatic whisper. “Then let me come.”

I open my mouth to protest, then close it. This is already more than I expected him to concede, and I need to learn when to let things go. “Okay, but you have to sit at a different table. I can't have my potential client thinking I need a bodyguard for coffee.”

“I'll stay out of sight,” he agrees, “but I'll be watching.”

“That's not creepy at all,” I mutter.

“Gela.” His voice has that warning tone that used to intimidate me, but now just makes me want to roll my eyes. “This isn't a joke.”

“I know it's not a joke,” I counter. “But neither is my career. So thank you for understanding that.”

Something shifts in his expression, a softening around his eyes. “I do respect what you've built. I admire it, actually.”

The compliment catches me off guard, and I feel a flush creeping up my neck. “Well... good. Thank you.”

An awkward silence falls between us. I'm not used to winning arguments with him, and I'm not entirely sure what to make of this victory.

“Just tell me what time we leave tomorrow,” he says, turning back to his desk. “And wear something low-key.”