Page 29 of The Wrong Brother
“Emma,” Kate says suddenly.
“What?” I almost drop the cinnamon roll that is, in fact, sinfully delicious.
“You’re staring.”
My face bursts into flames. Ruslan smirks into his coffee cup.
A few minutes later, Kate gets distracted by a call from one of her friends and disappears toward the living room with her phone glued to her ear.
The second she’s gone; I look across the table at Ruslan.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “Who are you, really?”
His pale eyes lift to mine slowly. Dangerous eyes.
“My name is Ruslan Smirnov.”
The Russian pronunciation sounds heavier coming from him. Sharper. My eyes go wide at the surname.
“Yes,” he continues calmly, “Andrei and I are related. He is my younger half-brother.”
A part of me is disgusted by the fact that I have atype,apparently. Not Russian mobster—Andrei is too polished forthat, too perfect. He campaigns on lower taxes for the rich and the right to protect yourself against the government.
And Ruslan… even in a perfectly tailored business outfit, he looks like he could ruin lives. The glasses he has on slide down his nose. The frames have a hint of purple in them, drawing light to the silver of his hair. It’s attractive and charming.
That’s it; they have the same confidence. The same charisma.
“When we met, you told me your name was Russ.”
“It’s easier for Americans.”
“It’s also a lie.”
“It is.”
At least he admits it. Is that better?
I lean back slightly, studying him carefully. “So what now? You keep me hostage in your mansion forever?”
A dark chuckle leaves him. “You would become exhausting very quickly.”
“Wow. Rude.”
His gaze drags over my face for one long second before settling again. Then his expression shifts subtly; more focused. It sends a shiver up my spine because I recognize that look. I’ve seen it on the face of half a dozen white-collar criminals smart enough to get away with literal murder.
“There is something we should discuss,” he says quietly.
Instantly wary again, I fold my arms. “That sounds ominous.”
“It is a business proposition.”
Everything in me screams in protest. Not again; never again.
“No.”
“You don’t even know what it is yet.”
“I know enough.” I’m half-standing, my breath catching in my throat, heart pounding. Dizziness makes it feel like the top of my head is missing, and then there’s a firm pressure at my elbow.
