Page 38 of The Wrong Brother

I hate that sound now.

“You disappeared for two days,” I snap instead. “Excuse me for not realizing I’m apparently one stop on your social calendar. You made it sound like whatever you were planning on using me for,” I hate the way my body pulls at that choice of word, “was important in some way.”

The second the words leave my mouth, I want to die. Because theysoundjealous.

Ruslan stills completely. His eyes narrow, and I see that calculating assessment. The same one I used to use when trying to suss out someone’s emotions. “You missed me.”

I scoff. “Miss you? I barely know you. I was enjoying the peace and quiet until your lawyer expected me to sign this ridiculous contract.”

“Liar.”

My stomach flips traitorously. I throw the contract onto the bed instead before I can say something even more humiliating. “I’m not signing this if you run a full background investigation.”

Ruslan’s amusement fades instantly. His pale eyes settle fully on me now, observant and cold enough to make my pulse stumble.

“Why?” he asks quietly.

Every instinct in my body screams. But I can’t run, and I can’t fight anymore; I burned that bridge with the government two years ago.

Why?

Because if Ruslan digs deeply enough into my past, he’s going to find pieces of me I barely survived the first time. FBI reports.Missing evidence. Corruption investigations that spiraled so badly that I still wake up sweating some nights.

And the terrifying thing?

Part of me thinks he already suspects more than he’s saying.

“I just don’t like being investigated,” I say finally.

Ruslan watches me for a long moment. Then he moves slowly. Circling me. Herding me, I realize too late, further into the room that smells like him. The room I’ve been relieved not to be anywhere near, since my body is responding all too enthusiastically to these verymemorablesurroundings.

“You are lying again.”

The low certainty in his voice sends a sharp pulse of adrenaline through me. He stops directly in front of me now, close enough that I catch the clean scent of his cologne mixed with something darker underneath.

“You freeze my cards, hunt me across Santa Barbara, hold me hostage in your mansion, and now you want access to my entire life?” I snap. “Forgive me for being a little suspicious of your intentions.”

One pale eyebrow lifts. “There’s that word—hostageagain.”

“If the designer loafer fits.”

A dark laugh slips out of him. God, I hate how attractive that sound is. It makes something sultry and slow curl at my core, makes my nipples go hard without even the hint of a touch.

“I told you already what I am,” he says quietly.

“You told me you’re a criminal. But it seems worse than that.”

“Yes.”

Deep down, I knew. I knew from the second he appeared in that fitting room and every person around him shifted automatically. I knew from the men at the bus station. From the way people obey him instantly.

But hearing him admit it so calmly still rattles me.

“You should probably be more alarmed right now,” Ruslan murmurs, stepping closer. Closing the gap between us until his fingers are brushing stray curls from my neck. When did they fall from the messy bun I put them up in? This man infuriates me, pushes my boundaries, scares me, and thrills me all at once.

“Iamalarmed.”

“No,” he says softly, eyes dragging over my face, “you are angry. And turned on.”