Adrik backs out of the room, but he keeps the door open wide enough for a tall, curvy brunette to walk in.
The last time I saw Svetlana was probably about two years ago, at her father’s funeral. A funeral that Budimir had not attended, if I remember correctly.
But my father and I had gone.
She is just as beautiful as I remember. A striking woman, full of pride. Her eyes are large and winged with black liner that accentuates their upward tilt and brings the bright green of her irises into full focus.
Her dark hair is a mess of subtle waves that falls over her shoulders. Her makeup is subtle, only nude lipstick and the faintest hint of blush finishes off her look.
She’s wearing a black silk, wrap-around dress that hugs her shapely figure and shows just the right amount of cleavage.
Bombshell. That was how Cillian had described her.
“Artem,” she says, giving me a seductive smile that I know not to trust.
That was how she had been trained to look at all men.
At least, the ones who can do something for her.
If she is interested in me, it’s not for my good looks.
“Or do I need to address you as ‘don’ now?” she adds teasingly.
“Artem works for me,” I reply. “Drink?”
“Mojito,” she replies.
I raise my eyebrows. “I’m not one of your marks, ‘Lana,” I remind her.
She smiles and relaxes into her seat a little. “Beer, then” she replies.
“Still a beer drinker.”
“Always.”
I get up and move to the tiny makeshift bar in the corner. I grab a beer for her and a bottle of water for myself.
“What happened to Artem Kovalyov the whiskey drinker?” she asks in surprise.
“Things change,” I answer simply. I leave it at that and change the subject. “How have you been, Svetlana?”
She hesitates, still eyeing my water, before shrugging and meeting my gaze. “Busy.”
“So I’ve heard.” I fold my hands and lean back. “I was impressed with your resume.”
“You have plenty of spies,” she points out. “Why call me?”
“None like you,” I say.
She bats her eyelashes. “Stop it. You’ll make me blush.”
“And if you do, I’ll know you’re playing a part.”
Her smile drops at once. “Meaning what?”
“Meaning there are women who blush and women who don’t,” I say. “And you most definitely fall into the latter category.”
“I don’t know if I should be offended by that or not,” she smiles.