THREE
Lucy
"What the hell are you doing?" Nikita's voice startles me, and I nearly fall over the edge of the open window. I have one leg out and one still in the mansion's bedroom.
I need to get out before it's too late.
My hands grip the bedsheets that are tied into a long makeshift rope that I'm attempting to use to climb down. They're fastened along the post of the headboard.
Nikita storms into the bedroom, and I swing my leg over the window ledge.
I don't plan on sticking around to find out what's going to happen. I yank the cloth sheets and grip them as I'm holding onto the sheets and nothing more while I hang over the edge of the window.
"Lucy, get the hell back inside."
Nikita is peering over the window at me and grabs my arm.
"Get off me!" I shriek.
My ruckus only brings on more commotion. A bright spotlight moves over the mansion until it lights up my escape.
So much for being quiet and sneaking away without being noticed. I glance over my shoulder, and there are two armed guards hurrying toward me.
Shit.
I glance up at Nikita; his grip is firm on my arm as I'm hanging by the knotted bedsheets. He yanks me up over the windowpane, dragging my ass back inside.
"Do you think that's the best way out of here?" Nikita scolds.
"I don't want to go to prison," I say. If he was serious about calling the cops for trespassing, I want out.
"Malish, there are far worse places than a prison cell," Nikita says.
"My name is Lucy," I reiterate and push past him after he helps me to my feet on solid ground. I hurry for the door. Maybe I can still make it out of here and go home for dinner, without ending up in handcuffs.
I'm fast, but Nikita is faster.
He traps me in the bedroom, beating me to the door, his back against the wood. Nikita is large against my petite frame. He towers above me, his arms folded against his chest. "And where do you think you're going?" he asks, staring down.
His gruffness sends a shiver down my spine. I don't dare admit there's an attraction. I'd intentionally gotten into his way, forcing him to stumble into me at the club. I'm not usually quite so bold, but what choice did I have?
"Home." I'm blatant and not the least bit apologetic. "Do you mind?" I gesture for him to move, but he doesn't budge from his position. His feet are practically molded to the ground.
He huffs under his breath but doesn't step aside. "If I let you walk out that door, at least two men will detain you."
"They're going to call the cops?" My stomach roils at the thought of being arrested. I've never been in the back of a squad car or imprisoned. That's not to say I haven't caused trouble and gotten myself in over my head, which is where I am now.
Trouble seems to find me.
I'd prefer that it didn't. I don't like constantly having to look over my shoulder. But I'm sure this mammoth of a man, staring down at me, glaring, doesn't know the least bit about sacrifice.
"Depends on what you tell me," Nikita says.
He reaches out and rests his strong, warm hands on my arms, backing me several feet until the backs of my legs hit the mattress.
"Sit," he orders.
I fall gracefully onto the bed in a heap, and my shoulders slump. "I'm sorry," I say, glancing down at my hands in my lap, fidgeting with my fingers.
"For what? Jumping the fence, or trying to leave?" Nikita's tongue is sharp.
I wince at his words as he stands above me, his shadow looming over me along with his presence. Would I make it to the door if I try to bolt past him?
Doubtful.
"You stole my keys. That's why we collided in the club," Nikita says, the realization dawning on him that there's more to the story than I've let on. Not that I've told him anything. I'm not stupid enough to reveal to him who hired me.
This wasn't my idea, robbing his home. Whoever he is, he's wealthy and has a high level of security around the premises.
I should have been caught sooner.
I don't answer, and he tilts his head, shaking it disapprovingly. He steps into my personal space, and I inhale a sharp breath, nervous. He could easily overpower me.
I throw my arms up, forcing him back, wanting space. I don't know what he intends, but being trapped in a room with him wasn't part of the plan.
"Get off me!"
"I haven't so much as touched you," he whispers.
My heart strums, and my breathing quickens. His proximity is highly arousing, and while I should be afraid, my body responds in kind. Last night with him, the air was charged. Electricity burned between us, but I didn't let him touch me.
Sitting on a barstool, I have orders to watch for Nikita Krylova. I've been shown his picture; I only hope it's recent. He's memorable in his photograph, and while I sit and sip a ginger ale, I keep an eye on the door.
I blow an hour at the bar and glance at my watch.
The place is filling up with more patrons, and I've been instructed to wait for Nikita. He's one of the managers of the establishment.
He will show up.