Filthy Promises: Chapter 20

Per Se is exactly what it’s designed to be—exclusive, expensive, impressive. The type of place where the waitstaff hovers just out of sight until needed, then materializes like well-dressed ghosts to bow until their noses scrape the floor.

I loathe it.

Too sterile. Too predictable. Too fucking boring.

Kind of like this date.

“The caviar here is flown in from the Caspian Sea every morning,” Irina Petrov informs me, her perfectly manicured finger tracing the rim of her champagne flute. “Though I imagine you already know that.”

Irina is objectively beautiful. That’s a fact, not an opinion. Long, dark hair, skin like porcelain, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. She’s wearing a red dress that’s been poured onto a figure that many plastic surgeons have worked tirelessly to perfect.

But all I can think about is green.

Green like the dress Rowan is wearing. Another creation I had specially delivered this morning. Another shade that makes her eyes shine like a precious gem I’ve dug out of the dirt myself.

Rowan sits at a small table nearby—close enough to be summoned if needed, far enough to give the illusion of privacy. She’s pretending to work on her tablet, but I can see the tension in her shoulders. She’s listening to every word.

Good.

Thoughts of what a jealous Rowan might do have consumed me since the observation first sparked in my head at the gala. Seeing her in her apartment last night confirmed it: she’s dying inside. The mere mention of me on a date with another woman has her fucking seething.

Never mind that I can’t stand these women, that I don’t have the least desire to so much as make eye contact with them, much less take them to bed. Rowan doesn’t know that and I don’t intend to tell her.

Jealousy is too beautiful of a shade of green on her.

“My father speaks highly of your business expansion plans,” Irina continues, dragging my attention back to her. “Particularly the new shipping routes through the Baltic.”

I take a sip of my scotch, doing my damndest to keep my disinterest from showing. “Does he?”

“Mmm. He believes our families could benefit from closer cooperation.” Her lips curve into what I’m sure she thinks is a seductive smile.

I’ve seen that exact smile on a dozen women before her. It’s never been less impressive.

“Cooperation is always valuable,” I reply noncommittally.

My eyes drift back to Rowan. She’s tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. That nervous habit of hers. I wonder if she knows she does it. I wonder if she knows that, every time she does, I imagine wrapping that same hair around my fist and pushing her onto her knees.

“Vincent?” Irina’s voice has an edge now. “Am I boring you?”

Yes. Profoundly.

“Not at all,” I lie smoothly. “Please, continue about your father’s opinions.”

She launches into another rehearsed monologue about family alliances and business synergies. All code, of course. She’s talking about the Bratva. About becoming the power couple of the Russian underworld.

Under different circumstances, I might be interested. She’s smart, she’s connected, she speaks the language of our world fluently. The perfect bride for a man in my position.

Yet all I can focus on is the way Rowan shifts in her chair. How her teeth gnaw at her lower lip as she pretends not to watch us.

What’s happening inside of her, I wonder? Is she squirming in discomfort? Does she wish it was her in red, flirting with me, bragging to me, so utterly assured that this night will end the way she wants it to?

Or does the little voyeur like her seat, her point of view? Is she getting the peep show she hoped for? Is she dreaming of more?

“Excuse me,” I tell Irina, pulling out my phone. “I need to check something with my assistant.”

Before she can respond, I’m already signaling to Rowan. She rises immediately and approaches our table, tablet in hand.

“Yes, Mr. Akopov?”

“The Nakamura contracts,” I say. “Have they been finalized?”

She blinks, confused. We both know there are no Nakamura contracts pending.

“Not yet, sir. I’ll check on their status if you’d like.”

“That won’t be necessary.” I gesture to the chair beside me. “Have a seat. There are a few details we should go over.”

Irina’s eyes narrow, but her social training prevents her from showing any real displeasure.

Rowan hesitates. “Now, sir? I don’t want to interrupt your dinner.”

“It won’t take long.”

She sits beside me, careful to maintain a professional distance. I can smell her perfume—the one I had sent to her apartment along with the dress. Light. Fresh. Nothing like the heavy, cloying scent Irina bathes in.

“Ms. Petrov,” I say, “this is my executive assistant, Rowan St. Clair. Rowan, this is Irina Petrov.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Rowan says, extending her hand.

Irina takes it with the enthusiasm of someone picking up a dead rat. “Likewise.”

I place my hand on Rowan’s knee under the table. The whisper of silk between us is offensive to me. I want the hot flush of her skin right up against mine. Fuck this barrier.

But for now, I leave it be. Just the weight of my hand on her thigh.

She jumps, her eyes darting to mine in shock.

“Next quarter’s projections,” I say, as if nothing’s happening beneath the tablecloth. “Do we have them ready for the board meeting?”

My hand slides an inch higher on her thigh. The silk of her dress is smooth under my palm. I dream about shredding it, burning the shreds, ejecting them into fucking orbit for the crime of hiding Rowan’s body from me.

“Y-yes,” she stammers. “They’re in your inbox for review.”

“Excellent.” My fingers draw zig-zags on her thigh, teasing closer and closer to the slit in her gown. I can feel her muscles tense beneath my touch. “And the London office? Any updates?”

Irina is watching us with laser focus now. She’s not stupid. She senses something’s off.

“All on schedule,” Rowan manages, her voice impressively steady despite the flush creeping up her neck.

Yes, that’s what I want, little doe. I want that flush to consume you. I want to know you’re burning up, green and red, red and green, a melting pot of need and lust and angst and anger. I want you to be fucking furious that this haughty princess here gets to make eyes at me while you tap away on your tablet and do my bidding. While you sit there and take every goddamn thing I give you without a word of complaint.

I want to light you on fire and watch you burn.

And only when you beg for my help will I step in to douse the flames.

I move my hand higher, just to the edge of propriety. Her breath catches, but she maintains her composure.

“Vincent,” Irina interrupts, “perhaps business can wait until tomorrow? We were having such a stimulating conversation.”

I reluctantly withdraw my hand from Rowan’s thigh, not missing the small exhale of relief (or is it disappointment?) that escapes her lips.

“Of course,” I agree. “That will be all for now, Ms. St. Clair.”

Rowan nods, rising quickly. “Thank you, sir. Ms. Petrov, it was nice meeting you.”

As she walks back to her table, I catch Irina watching her with calculating eyes.

“She seems… efficient,” she remarks, the word dripping with disdain.

I take another sip of scotch. “One of my most valuable employees.”

“Hmm. I’m sure.” Her smile is all teeth now. “Though perhaps a bit young and inexperienced for such a senior position?”

I meet her gaze directly. “I value potential over experience.”

“Is that what you call it?” She laughs, the sound like ice cubes clinking in a glass. “My father mentioned you had taken a particular interest in your new assistant. I see he wasn’t exaggerating.”

That puts a twist of anger on my face. “Your father should concern himself with his own business.”

“Our business is soon to be shared business, is it not?” She reaches across the table, placing her hand over mine. Her skin is cold to the touch, a flopping fish, an ice sculpture pawing at me in a way I despise. “That’s why we’re here, after all.”

I force myself not to scowl or pull away. “We’re here because our fathers think it’s a good idea. Let’s not pretend otherwise.”

Her smile falters. “Direct, aren’t you?”

“Always.” I glance over at Rowan again, finding her already looking at me. She quickly drops her gaze back to her tablet. “It saves time.”

“Then let me be direct as well.” Irina leans forward, cleavage strategically displayed. “I don’t care if you fuck your assistant. I don’t care if you fuck every assistant in your building. All I care about is the arrangement our families have discussed. The appearance of a proper marriage. The combining of our interests.”

I raise an eyebrow. “How very modern of you.”

“I’m a pragmatist, Vincent. Just like you.” She takes a delicate sip of champagne. “We could be good together. Powerful. We understand each other’s worlds. We speak the same language.”

She’s right. We do.

But suddenly, that language feels hollow.

“The duck here is excellent,” I say, changing the subject abruptly. “I recommend it highly.”

The rest of dinner is a haze of expensive food and meaningless conversation. I answer when appropriate, nod at the right moments, but my mind is elsewhere.

It’s on soft skin under silk. On the small gasp Rowan couldn’t quite suppress when I touched her. One glance at her is all it takes to know her mind is doing the same self-torture that mine is.

Dreaming of moans cascading down empty office hallways. Wondering how it would feel if I bound her wrists with my black silk tie and hiked that green dress up and over her hips. She’s wondering, just like me, how pretty she’d gasp when my fingers found her wetness.

She’d yearn for it.

She’d burn for it.

When the bill arrives—or rather, when I signal for it and sign without looking at the amount—Irina excuses herself to the ladies’ room. The moment she’s gone, I gesture for Rowan to join me.

She approaches cautiously, like she’s afraid I might reach for her thigh again. No—like she’s afraid she might want me to.

“Is there something you need, sir?” she asks, her voice carefully professional.

“Your assessment,” I say.

She blinks. “Of what?”

“Ms. Petrov. Your impressions.”

Rowan hesitates, clearly struggling with how honest to be. “She seems… suitable.”

“Suitable,” I repeat, amused by her diplomatic answer. “Is that all?”

“She’s beautiful,” Rowan admits. “And she clearly comes from your world. She understands things I don’t.”

I lean back in my chair, studying her face. “You don’t like her.”

“It’s not my place to like or dislike your potential bride.”

“But you don’t.”

She meets my eyes directly, something she rarely does. “No. I don’t.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s cold.” The words come out in a torrid rush, like she can’t hold them back. “She’s looking at you like you’re a merger, not a man. And she kept checking her phone under the table when she thought you weren’t looking.”

I laugh, genuinely surprised by her observation. “Did she?”

Rowan nods. “Three times.”

“Good eye.” I find myself smiling at her—a real smile, not the calculated one I’ve been giving Irina all night. “What else?”

“She—” Rowan stops as Irina emerges from the ladies’ room. “Is there anything else you need, Mr. Akopov?”

“Wait in the car,” I tell her. “We’ll be leaving shortly.”

She nods and retreats, passing Irina on her way out. The two women exchange tight smiles that wouldn’t fool anyone.

“Shall we?” I ask Irina, rising to help her with her coat.

“Of course.” She allows me to guide her outside, where my driver waits with the car. Rowan is already inside, seated as far from the door as possible.

I kiss Irina’s hand in the formal way expected of me. “I’ll be in touch.”

“I look forward to it.” She glances past me to the car, where Rowan sits visible through the window. “Perhaps next time, just the two of us?”

I don’t bother giving her an answer.

Once she’s safely in her own car, I slide into the backseat beside Rowan. The privacy partition is already up. Smart girl.

“Did I make you uncomfortable earlier?” I ask, my fingers once again drawing slow, meandering paths on the silk of her dress. The air in here is objectively cool, but against my skin, it’s like we’re standing in the middle of a forest fire.

“Yes.” She doesn’t pull away. “But not for the reason you think.”

“Tell me.”

Her breathing quickens. “Because I wanted you to keep going. And I shouldn’t. You’re my boss. You’re on a date with another woman. A woman who makes so much more sense for you than I ever could.”

“Is that what you think?” My hand steals higher, soaking up the heat of her through the thin fabric. The slit is there, just inches away. If I pushed my hand beneath it… “That Irina Petrov makes sense for me?”

“Doesn’t she?” Rowan’s voice is breathy now. She’s as aware as I am that there are mere millimeters separating my fingertips from finding out whether or not she’s wearing any panties. “She’s from your world. She’s— She’s⁠—”

“Cold,” I finish for her. “Like you said. And you know what? I’m sick of it. Everything in my life already is.” My fingers find the hem of her dress, slipping just underneath to touch bare skin. “I’m tired of ice, Ms. St. Clair. I want fire instead.”

Her lips part, but whatever she was going to say is lost as the car stops. We’ve reached her apartment building.

I withdraw my hand slowly, already missing the warmth of her. “We have another dinner in a few days. Katerina Volkov.”

Rowan nods, her eyes still dark with desire. “I’ll be ready.”

“Green again,” I tell her. “I like you in green.”

She opens the door, but pauses before stepping out. “Vince?”

“Yes?”

“What are we doing?”

The question contains multitudes.

I smile, knowing exactly what she’s asking but unwilling to give her the answer she wants. Not yet. “Playing the game, little doe. The only way to win is to see it through to the end.”

She nods, understanding even as disappointment flickers across her face. “Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight, Rowan.”

I watch her walk to her building, shoulders squared despite the confusion I know she must be feeling. Only when she’s safely inside do I signal the driver to continue on to my penthouse.

Alone in the backseat, I close my eyes and lean my head back. The scent of her perfume lingers, teasing me with possibilities.

Irina Petrov makes sense on paper. She’s the logical choice. The safe choice. The one my father would approve of.

But logic has never tasted as sweet as the gasp Rowan couldn’t quite suppress when I touched her thigh. Safety has never been as intoxicating as the honesty in her eyes when she admitted she notices everything about me.

The game is getting more complicated than I anticipated. And for the first time in a very long time, I’m not entirely sure of my next move.

But I know one thing with absolute certainty: I’m not nearly done with Rowan St. Clair.

Not even close.