Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 88879 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88879 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
"I am not the lead estate agent," I blurt out.
"This is not a negotiable request," the man replies indifferently.
If it’s not negotiable, then it’s not a request, is it, I think sourly, but obviously, I don’t say my thoughts out aloud. I make a face at Sasha.
"He's watching from the car," Sasha mutters fiercely under her breath, her expression and demeanor are now as hard as stone. "Control your expressions, be polite. Knock this out of the park. Remember, half of the commission is mine."
"Yes." I swallow. "Yes, of course."
“I’ll walk down to the beach and wait for you there.” She gives me one last flinty look before she walks away. I watch her stiff back disappear from sight and it doesn't feel real. Nothing feels real. My hand flutters to my stomach. I am shaken, nervous, and stressed all at once.
One of the men says something in Russian. Instinctively, I know that he is signaling to someone in the car that the coast is clear.
Slowly, I turn around and look out of the windows. The chauffeur is pulling open the passenger door of the Rolls Royce, and my gaze is riveted on the client as he is revealed in pieces.
First, sleek dark shoes attached to a tailored charcoal trouser leg. Then a head of dark unbelievably lustrous hair. A side profile of a clean-shaven man. Already I can make out he is beautiful and broad-shouldered. And supremely confident. Suddenly, he unfurls fully and I catch my breath.
No way!
This must be a prank. Billionaires are supposed to look like Warren Buffet and George Soros. Fat, old, money-obsessed workaholics. This man is ripping like freaking Tarzan. His green gaze meets my staring eyes through the glass window. And our eyes lock. I can’t move a muscle. I find myself struggling to breathe. I watch him the way I imagine a rabbit paralyzed by sheer terror watches a python slither quietly towards it. It knows it’s going to be crushed and swallowed whole, but there is not a thing it can do about it. It can only shiver helplessly as death comes.
His eyes never leave mine as his long legs stride forward relentlessly. It’s like watching a movie in slow motion. The wind catches his glorious hair, lifts it, and drops it. Wow! God sure gave him plenty. His gaze never leaves mine. I don't move forward. I can’t. For a moment my view is obscured by a column, and I am able to blink. Still, I can’t move. It is only when I catch the unimaginably expensive whiff of his cologne that I know I’ve nearly fucked up this sale.
Needing to rectify this, I take a deep breath and lift my foot intending to take a step forward, my hand extended. Then he comes back into view. Bigger and bolder than before. And I don’t know how or why, but my foot catches on nothing and my knees give way. I collapse to a crouching position on the floor. Shit. I stare at the granite floor. So highly polished I can see the reflection of my horrified face on it.
As I stare at my face with dismay, a sleek dark shoe comes into view a foot away from me. The python has arrived. I close my eyes. Oh shit.
Don’t fuck this up, Lara. It’s not broken. Just start again and everything will be fine.
The whole agency is depending on me. My father is depending on me. I have to persevere. I’ll just offer him a glass of champagne and take it from there. Everything is always better with champagne. I open my eyes and raise my head slowly, my gaze travelling the long length of him. And that slow journey becomes my first mistake of the morning.
I reach his eyes and my heart... stops.
Chapter Six
IVAN
It is true that I have played a few scenarios in my head of how our first interaction will go, but never could I have dreamed of this. Her, prostrate at my feet. This is perfect. Her face is upturned, her eyes are enormous. They are exactly how I imagined them to be. Full of stormy passion. Her mouth is so full it is like a ripe-red fruit.
Begging me to take it.
I know then: she is not the girl with flowing hair wandering alone on the moors, she is the wild and unpredictable moors itself. Her cover of beautiful purple flowers hides the countless men she has blinded in thick fog and buried in watery graves on her marshes.
She is dangerous, but I’m not afraid. I want to be one of those men. Buried inside her.
I stare at my find almost in disbelief. God, she is beautiful. Much more beautiful in person. To think I entertained the thought she might be underwhelming. The breathing living Lara Fitzpatrick is more sexy, more mesmerizing, and more delicious. I want to reach out and stroke her head. I want her lips to be wrapped around my cock.