Page 49 of The Wrong Brother

For one brief second, silence hangs between us. Then Ruslan smirks.

He turns and leaves me there, staring first to my left and then to my right. The suite must be close to 3,000 square feet. A chain of rooms with tucked-away corners for privacy.

Where he might find me.

Back me into a corner?—

No.

This has to stop now. I take a deep breath, dead set on the goal: play Ruslan Smirnov’s girlfriend for the month. Watch him destroy Andrei however he sees fit. Collect my money.

Run.

Nothing more; there can’t be anything more.

Chapter 12

Ruslan

Colorado still smells the same:like cold air, pine, and money. The breeze coming down off the mountains stirs something deep inside me. I remember my mother’s winter coat and the way it smelled of wood-smoke. Her hands leading me at an ice-skating rink.

How strange to think that once I was just a child, worried about slipping and nothing else.

I stand beside the hotel window Tuesday morning, watching gray clouds drag slowly across the mountains while the city sprawls beneath me in polished steel and early autumn gold. Four days.

Four more days until the engagement party. Four days until Andrei sees me standing beside the woman he discarded.

My pulse settles pleasantly at the thought. Finally.

For years I stayed away from Colorado, not because I wanted to but because I had to. Business expanded better from California, and distance kept old ghosts buried where they belonged. Everyone benefited from the arrangement.

Especially Andrei.

Because my little brother truly believed I would never come back here.

He mistook restraint for surrender. A dangerous mistake.

Behind me, the suite remains quiet. Emma is still asleep after fighting me until nearly two in the morning over the sleeping arrangements. Eventually she claimed the bedroom while I took the sitting area couch, though not before threatening to stab me with a hotel pen if I “loomed ominously” near her again.

Charming woman.

I should focus entirely on strategy right now.

Instead, I keep thinking about the way she looked wrapped in the hotel robe afterward, glaring at me while her curls dried damp around flushed cheeks.

Distracting.

Unhelpful.

I adjust my cuffs and force my attention back toward the city below.

Four days. Time to begin.

* * *

The journalist arrives twelve minutes late to lunch. I notice because men like Victor Hale survive by being punctual around people like me, which means something is off. Either he’s nervous, or my team missed a key piece in this arrangement.

He walks into the private dining room, visibly nervous anyway, adjusting his tie twice before sitting across from me at the table.