Page 40 of Lethal Torture

Sure, Luke. You really took the fucking high road.

I’ve always trusted my instincts, but there were a thousand ways I could have handled this morning’s encounter, and any of them would have been better than the one I chose.

I need to start using different damn instincts if I’m going to survive this thing with an ounce of professionalism left.

I check my phone. Barely a minute has passed since I left her bedroom.

For a minute there, I wasn’t sure Iwouldleave it.

The glimpse of luscious pink folds when she bent over almost broke me.

But I don’t break, not even for Zinaida Melikov. And if this is going to work, there’s no room for games.

No matter how delicious those games would be.

Zinaida’s life has been entrusted to my care. I won’t allow anything, even her hot, scented naked body, to distract me from the job I’ve been hired to do.

Reset your head, Macarthur.

I pull out my laptop to look more closely at the security around the penthouse, and a sudden flash of movement catches my eye.

I lean forward, cursing the lack of camera surveillance.

Mak might have designed the setup, but I’m guessing Zinaida overrode whoever came in to install it, because the lone camera in her private suite shows only a useless, dark corner of the room, where a full-length ornamental mirror is gathering dust.

Surely there can’t be anyone hiding in her suite?I only just left, for Chrissakes.

Trying to work out what I saw, I zoom in on the corner.

And then I fucking freeze.

The movement I saw was a reflection in the mirror, of the silk robe being thrown to the floor. But not because Zinaida is swapping it for other clothes.

No.

Zinaida isn’t getting dressed.

Instead she’s propping herself up on the bed pillows, eyes closed, mouth slightly open—with a vibrator in her hand.

Oh, fuck.

I need to close the camera window.

Right now.

And then walk away from the job, for good this time. I’m not playing any more games.

Except the same instinct that made me call her bluff in the bathroom tells me that, for once, Zinaida isn’t playing a game.

She isn’t staring at me in the mirror. In fact, I’d put good money on her having forgotten it’s there altogether, and certainly that the camera is trained on it.

Because this isn’t the Zinaida from the Viewing Room, her knowing eyes staring directly into mine, daring me to lose my shit.

This Zinaida is clutching the pillow with one hand, turning her face into it to muffle the moans I don’t need audio to imagine, her hand sliding the vibrator between the swollen, glistening lips I promised myself I’d forget.

A small extension on the upper side of the device settles over her clit, and her whole body arches up from the bed.

Christ.