Page 12 of Unrequited

“Sir,” comes the voice again from behind me, more insistent this time.

I turn and level him with a look. “Interrupt me one more feckin’ time,” I growl. I don’t need to finish the sentence.

He blanches, bites his lip, then takes a step back.

“It’s urgent, sir,” he croaks, nervous now.

“I’ll be with you in a minute.” I turn back to her. She’s watched the exchange with interest.

“What’s your name?” she asks softly.

“James,” I tell her.

It’s not exactly a lie. James is a version of my real name. Close enough. Even if I told her the full thing, she wouldn’t know who I was. I’d have to tell her my nickname, too, and I’m not doingthat.

“That's a lie,” she says, a hint of a smile teasing the corners of her lips. “But it's nice to meet you, James. Where are you from?”

She’s a sharp one.

“Ireland,” I say, watching her carefully.

She snorts. “I’d have to be dumb to not realize you’re Irish with a brogue like that. Whatpartof Ireland, James the Liar?” She smiles. “The powerful, scary Irish liar.”

I can't help it. I smile.

Ineversmile.

So why the fuck am I smiling at her?

“The part near the water,” I say evasively, grinning at her, knowing full well I haven’t narrowed it down at all. I wish I didn’t have to hide. I’d love to tell her I’m from Ballyhock,the most gorgeous little coastal village just outside of Dublin.

And I miss it. I miss it so much, my heart aches.

“A better answer, I guess. What brings you to Moscow?” she asks sweetly.

“What gives you the impression I’m about to tell you anything true about me?” I shoot back across the table.

She leans toward me. There it is again, that faint, floral smell. Subtle, addictive. And her gaze is locked on mine.

“And what’syourname?” I ask, expecting her to lie like I did.

“Zoya,” she says. For some reason, I know she’s telling me the truth.

And just like that, my entire world comes to a screeching halt.

Fuck.

“That’s a beautiful name,” I tell her, trying to keep my poker face, trying to make sure she doesn’t hear the record screech in my head.

“Sir,” the voice behind me says again, louder now.

But now I know what’s so urgent.

She’sZoya feckin’ Kopolova.

The youngest daughter of my enemy.

And she’s walked straight into my trap.