Page 36 of The Wrong Brother

I can’t let him find out that I’m former FBI. It will, to some extent, be harder to find—be something hewon’thave found yet, if he did a cursory search. Which he must have, since he gained access to my accounts and shut them down.

But whatever is going on between Ruslan and Andrei must truly have the former shaken because he hasn’t dug deep enough.

Yet.

If I sign this contract as-is, he will.

Panic crawls fast and ugly up my spine. Before I can lose my nerve, I shove the papers together and storm out of the guest wing barefoot and furious, followed by the lawyer.

“Um, Miss—” he calls, but I ignore him.

A maid points me toward the primary bedroom after one look at my face. Apparently, everyone in this house recognizes an impending argument. Good.

Storming into the room, I turn with one hand on the door and demand, “Stay out.”

The lawyer practically falls backward when I slam the door in his face. Turning around, I unleash all the pent-up frustration from the last few days—no, the lastweekof being trapped, lied to, and used as some kind of bait.

“Are you out of your mi?—”

The words die instantly in my throat.

Ruslan looks up from fastening his watch. Shirtless.

Oh.

Oh, that’s unfortunate.

Warm lamplight spills across broad shoulders and hard muscle dusted with black ink, disappearing beneath the waistband ofbeige slacks. A thin scar cuts across one side of his ribs. Another marks his shoulder.

Real scars; not from football played in childhood or an appendectomy. Scars belonging to someone who has seen blood and shed it.

My brain fully stops functioning for one humiliating second.

Ruslan notices immediately.

One pale eyebrow lifts. “You appear distracted.”

Heat floods straight into my face. “I’m not distracted. I’m angry.” The papers are in a limp bundle at my side.

“Mm.” The bastard actually looks amused.

I clutch the contract tighter instead, holding it up. “This is insane. No way am I agreeing to this.”

Ruslan reaches calmly for a cream-colored linen shirt draped across the bed. He pulls it on over his shoulders, buttoning it slowly. It’s embroidered in gorgeous, muted floral designs in red, gold, and green across the chest and cuffs. Damn. This man looks too good.

“You will need to be more specific.”

“These stipulations. The background check!”

His expression shifts momentarily, interest lighting up his eyes. Shit. I shouldn’t have mentioned that first.

“You object?”

“Yes, I object!”

He slowly finishes the last button without looking remotely concerned by my outrage. “That generally happens during negotiations. Or, at least, the sort that I’m involved in.” A wicked smirk, like the one he gave me before he hoisted me onto the dining room table.

“You don’t need a background check on me.”