Page 57 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan

“Yes, Yulia. Outside. Where normal people go sometimes.”

She hesitates, suspicion clear in those green eyes. “Why?”

“What do you mean, why?” I cluck my tongue. “It’s a dinner, not a trap. You in?”

That earns me a soft snort and a muttered, “Fine. But if this ends in a ‘surprise’ like the time you kidnapped me when I fell for your request for a conversation, I’m lighting your house on fire.”

“Fair.”

I take a step closer, making her tilt her head to meet my eyes. “Be ready in an hour. Wear something nice.”

Her lips twitch. “Because the place is fancy—or because you like me in dresses?”

There it is. That spark I’ve been waiting for.

“Both,” I say, letting my gaze linger. “But mostly the second.”

A soft flush rises on her cheeks. I almost reach out—almost—but stop myself.

“Fine,” she says, standing. “One hour.”

She brushes past me, close enough that I catch the scent of her shampoo. My hand inches to reach out, to grab her hand, to hold her just a little longer in conversation, but I let her pass.

***

She meets me by the car exactly on time.

And for a second, I forget how to breathe.

The dress is black with a deep green sheen, the kind of fabric that drinks in shadows and throws back light in all the right places. It clings to her curves like it was sewn straight onto her skin, the neckline low enough to tempt, the slit high enough to threaten my sanity.

She looks like temptation on legs.

And she knows it.

Her hair’s swept up, exposing the graceful line of her neck, and her lips are painted that same wicked shade of red I haven’t stopped thinking about since the gala. One look at her and I feel something primal claw its way up my spine.

“You’re staring,” she says, like she’s already bored of the effect she’s having.

“You look nice,” I say, voice rougher than intended.

She shrugs. “You told me to wear something nice.”

I open the car door for her and let her slide in before I say something stupid. Like how I want to rip that dress off her.

“Where are we going?” she asks as the car pulls away from the house.

“Dinner first,” I reply. “Then a surprise.”

“I’m not big on surprises lately.”

I laugh. “Fair enough. But you might like this one.”

***

We pull up in front ofBellami’s, one of the oldest and most discreet restaurants in Boston. Private rooms, off-the-books reservations, and a wine cellar that makes the world’s most renowned sommeliers drool.

The valet takes one look at the car, then at me, and stiffens like he’s just been summoned to confession.