Hart Attack

by Cristin Harber

  “You good now, buddy? I think sports is on.” The bartender brought the screen back to the live feed.

  Ashleigh stood. “I think I should go.”

  “See ya.” His teeth were clenched. Never in a million years did Roman expect Beth to do a job where she’d have to screw her way through a mission. Heart pounding in his chest, he didn’t looked at Ashleigh. Just continued to stare straight ahead.

  “Ass,” the woman scoffed as she took her drink and bailed. Thankfully.

  He picked up the phone and dialed Beth.

  No answer.

  He threw some bills on the bar and left the Pour House. Not even thinking about where he was going or what he was doing, he red-lined his truck back to Beth’s high-rise. She wouldn’t be there because she was dolled up and hanging on an asshole’s arm. But maybe he’d seen the whole thing wrong. Maybe Beth had a doppelganger and the real Beth wasn’t answering because she was asleep.

  Minutes later, he left his truck in front of her building, ignored and bypassed the doorman, and headed to her unit.

  He banged on her door with a balled-up fist. “Beth, open up.”

  No answer.

  He banged more, paced, tried to knock but ended up banging it again. No answer again. He called Beth again and got goddamn voicemail.

  “Open up, Beth.”

  Still nothing, and he was cracking up. Was she fucking the job as he knocked on her door? Fury built in his chest. The possessiveness almost knocked him over. If he ever got his hands on that man—he tried the door again. “Open the fuck up.”

  A neighbor poked his head out into the hall then ducked back in. Someone was going to call the cops if Roman didn’t tone it down. But he couldn’t. Whatever was raging through him at that moment had knocked sense away.

  The neighbor’s door opened again, and this time the man walked out. “Hey, buddy, I think you need to leave.”

  Goddamn it. “Mind your business. This is between me and her.” Roman banged on the door again and thought about the merits of tearing it off the hinges.

  The neighbor took a step closer. “She’s a friend, and I don’t know you. I’d like you to leave, or I’ll have to call the police.”

  First, Roman laughed. Then he appreciated that Beth had a neighbor who would be willing to walk out into the hall and risk a tangle with him. He stared at the ceiling and shook his head. “Right, man.”

  Because why was he there anyway? Beth was at work. On the job. Wouldn’t be the first time or the last time that either one of them was put into a position of having to do something they didn’t want to for the sake of their op.

  His stomach tumbled again, thinking of her in his arms earlier. Violence surged in his blood all over again, and he slammed his fist against the door then walked away, cursing as he maneuvered the halls. Stupid, swanky condo building with its doormen and nosy-albeit-protective neighbors—

  The elevator opened, and out walked Beth and her motherfucking date.

  Her face paled, and her frown reached into his soul, shredding it to pieces. “Roman. What are you doing here?”

  “Can we talk?”

  Her eyes went wide, and she shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. I’m—this is work. I’m—”

  Work? She was actually bringing him back to her place, even if the condo was just a CIA cover that she lived in like it was her own. God, he wanted to beat that man within an inch of his life. Maybe more.

  The dude stepped forward, confident, hand extended. “What my lovely colleague is trying to say is we have a project to discuss. Gregori Naydenov. Nice to meet you…”

  Roman glared, meeting the man’s hand with a shake that would crumble cement. Gregori Naydenov matched the grasp. “Roman Hart, and I need to speak with Beth privately.”

  “Roman, now’s not a great time,” Beth said.

  Now might’ve been the best time he could think of, and why did the name Gregori Naydenov sound familiar? “Thirty seconds, Beth, then you can deal with this guy. I’ll be out of your hair.”

  Dude stepped back, a smug smile on his face. “Beth, if you feel safe with this man, I have no problem giving you a moment.”

  Safe? Roman ground his teeth, and Beth glared.

  “Come on, Roman.” She strode past him in a dress that curved over her body in a way that made him stupid. “What are you doing?”

  Same question he just asked himself. He bent forward and whispered, “You do not have to sleep with him. Do. Not.”

  “I know.” Her emerald-green eyes shot daggers.

  “But you’re going to anyway? Poor form, Beth.”

  “Would you stop? You have no idea what’s happening. Just back off.”

  Roman coughed a harsh laugh. “Trust me, I know enough.”

  “He wants to talk.”

  Shaking his head, Roman nearly refused to believe she was that stupid. “Forget it.”

  He left her and walked past Naydenov, unable to rationalize the evening. Roman hit the call button for the elevator and looked back. Beth stared at him, sadness radiating where a smile had just been. She never should have told him. She could’ve told Nic or Cash.

  And Roman never should’ve kissed her.

  His phone vibrated, and he looked at it. Jared Westin. Good, because he needed to kill off the part of his brain that thought Beth was a great idea. “What’s up, Boss Man?”

  “We’ve got a job. Get to the office.”

  Thank fuck, because working a real gig, not screwing an asset, would keep his mind away from her and the question of “Since when did he care?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Beth unlocked her door and slid the key back into her purse. Her hands were shaking, and that had nothing to do with Greg walking in behind her. She would kill Roman. Just wring his thick neck and shake until he understood that he could never act that way again. Cocky, overreacting, alpha jerk.

  She took a breath and tried to calm her indignation. She needed to forget about Roman and focus on the surprisingly normal, nice guy in front of her.

  Greg had a cool-guy elegance as he walked past her, surveying her apartment. His was a completely different kind of cocky than Roman’s. Roman was brash and harsh and knew he made women weak in the knees. Greg had Bond-like qualities. He killed it in a tux, and he appreciated things in a more refined way.

  Damn it. Why was she comparing the two men?

  Regrouping, she focused on the job at hand, and more importantly, the condo that the CIA had expertly furnished for her cover. It was appropriately nice, decorated to fit her public persona.

  “Where’s this incredible piece—” But he spotted it before he finished his question and abandoned her, almost running toward the display of ancient pottery that was to be featured in National Geographic. They’d done the photo shoot and an interview at her condo the day before, but the pieces weren’t scheduled to go back until tomorrow.

  After raving on and on, Greg moved from one piece of art to the next, taking it in quietly. He’d yet to say anything about Roman, despite her deluge of apologies, which spanned “I don’t know how he made it past the doorman” to “I’m so sorry his attitude rained on our evening.”

  Nothing Roman had said seemed to faze Greg, and none of her apologies were accepted as needed. She took his profile in as he inspected her bookshelves lined with everything she’d never read. But she could answer a half dozen questions about each title. Maybe one day she’d find it in her to pick up some first-edition literary fiction, but what she really wanted was her e-reader stocked full of super-steamy romance novels.

  Greg was meticulous and careful as he moved about her apartment, far more interested in what lined her walls than in how easily—or not—her clothes would come off. That made her nerves settle slightly.

  She studied him. He probably had his hair cut once a week and paid someone to give him a shave. The thought of Roman in a barber’s chair, letting a man with a straight razor work on his face, was absurd.

  “What’s funny?” Gre
g asked, letting just the hint of a French accent decorate his question.

  “Nothing. Just… didn’t expect the night to go like this.”

  He checked the Rolex on his wrist. “Do you want me to go?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Absolutely not.”

  Though she’d die to get out of these heels. That would be the only good thing to come from Greg leaving now. Her feet would be free of her killer, albeit spectacular, Louboutins.

  He nodded, and somehow that movement accentuated how his broad shoulders filled out the jacket. Add in those eyes that someone—not her—could get lost in, and Gregori Naydenov was a package deal. How had he seemed so arrogant before she’d met him, when now he was just… comfortable to be around?

  So the issue at hand was how would they move forward? How would she secure an invitation to the auction? And did he truly want a business relationship? Maybe, maybe not. He was an expert-level friend of the enemy, so he wasn’t trustworthy. No matter how he acted in front of her, he had a reputation, and she’d seen him in action from afar. So did he have expectations that went along with traveling to the auction?

  “Beth? Where’d you go?” he asked, turning to face her. “How did you want the night to go?”

  “Spaced out. Sorry.” Beth chewed the inside of her cheek. “How did I want it to go or expect it to go?”

  He took a step closer, and the comfortable casualness somehow morphed into a sexy, predatory gaze. She had no idea how he did it. Was it the walk? The way he carried himself?

  “Whichever has the better answer,” he said.

  Her stomach dropped. Yes, Greg knew how to change simple words into panty-dropping commands. Whatever had enticed her to ask want-need questions had disappeared, and she backtracked to work topics.

  He paused her. “Excuse me a minute, bathroom?”

  She pointed him to the hallway door and wandered around her condo, casually looking at all the art that he enjoyed so much. It bored the hell out of her.

  The door swung open and a livelier Greg reappeared. “Alright, I really love that piece.” He chattered faster than before while his eyes darted.

  She took in his quick personality change, wondering how deep in his head he’d gone. Some people really got into history. She didn’t get it, but she could work it. “Some people say that a man on the search for the start of creation, who’s looking for answers about the formation of the world, might hold God-like worldviews. Maybe even Godlike opinions… of himself.”

  His crooked smile popped into place. “You’re asking if I can act Godlike?”

  “Maybe.” One eyebrow raised, she tilted her head.

  “I do have a pretty hefty dose of self-esteem. But I’d say it’s well earned.” Greg abandoned the wall of books, ignored an expensive piece of pottery that he should have found interesting, and stepped close to her. “You’ve known me for—” he checked the Rolex again — “a couple hours, and you’ve already made comparisons to something akin to the alpha and the omega. What does that say about you?”

  “I’m curious.”

  “You’re confident.” He took another step forward.

  “I’m wary.”

  “You’re smart.”

  She agreed. “Very.”

  He’d closed the space between them, leaving only a foot or so. This was not the Greg from thirty minutes ago. “I like you.”

  And what did he mean by that? “I’m easy to like. It could be either a personality plus or flaw.” She shrugged. “Depending on who you ask.”

  “It’s a plus.”

  “Well, good.” Her nerves were getting the better of her. Greg was her mark to work over, but suddenly she felt like the one being scrutinized, being poked to see how she would react. It didn’t seem malicious. Though he wasn’t acting innocent, either.

  “I’ve seen you at functions before, Beth. Why have we never talked?”

  She smiled. “I don’t believe you, but you’re sweet for saying you’ve noticed.”

  “Most people, sweetheart, don’t tell me they don’t believe me.”

  “Aren’t most people on your payroll or vapid, smiling blow job givers?”

  Disarmed for the moment, he laughed. “Touché.”

  Roman would never say touché. “But I do like you, too.” Bring it back to work. “And I want to know more about your collections. Do you prefer sculpted pieces over carved?”

  She tried in vain to remember something so particular that it wouldn’t matter to anyone but a collector. An auction invite wasn’t going to happen if she didn’t prove herself worthy. If only Jasper had given a heads up, or even if Evan had talked to her before throwing her into the assignment with zero prep work.

  “Sculpted.” He took a casual step in retreat. Maybe he got the message, or maybe he was staving off his approach. Really, he confused her.

  Beth tried for pseudo-honesty to keep him focused. “I’m glad you want to talk about work.”

  His head tilted. “Yes? Why?”

  “I could give you a line about wanting you to respect me, but really, I get very excited about what I do.”

  He could read into that whatever he wanted. What she really was excited about was an opportunity to prove herself in the field and move on from a stupid arts-and-crafts assignment.

  He smiled. “I’m not lying about liking you.”

  “Do you lie to girls often?”

  “Gorgeous girls wrapped around me, asking for the world and my bed? Maybe.”

  “That doesn’t make you very likeable, Mr. Naydenov.”

  He laughed. “But it does make me truthful. Which is interesting. I really like you, my new friend, Beth. You are… refreshing.”

  “I’ll ignore the likeability issue.” She let her lips upturn. “This time.”

  He threw his head back and laughed a little too loudly. “Thank you, Miss Tourne.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I wanted to feel you out more—I’m not this spontaneous—but you are too much fun. I’m traveling to Abu Dhabi for a private auction. Would you care to join me?”

  She held in her victory dance and played coy. “Are you luring me to a faraway country with the promise of dirty pieces of rock?”

  “Absolutely.” The crooked smile beamed.

  “Then you’ve sold me, yes.”

  For all the crimes and evils the man had reportedly perpetrated in his life, something happy and innocent washed over his face. “I’ll have my people work it out with your people. I’m sure the Smithsonian would love to get their fingers on this.”

  “Probably so.”

  Greg paced the length of the bookshelf again. “Are you going to tell me about your angry… boyfriend?”

  Laughing, she shook her head. “He’s most definitely not a boyfriend.”

  “An ex?”

  “Nope. Just an overprotective coworker. He works security. It’s in his nature to act like a brute.”

  “Hmm, I know people, can read them well.” His eyes danced. “It seemed like there was more there.”

  Apparently, Greg did know people. She shook her head and toyed with a curl that had escaped onto her face. “Nope. Not with a guy like that. I’m sorry he was rude earlier.”

  “You’ve apologized for him enough. Besides, I’ve seen much ruder in my line of work.”

  “And how is that? You’re at the peak of your career, crème de la crème of parties, you seem to have sway. You know art, travel, and your accent is… what is it?”

  “I’m from Monaco.”

  She sighed. “I’ve always wanted to go.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Doesn’t James Bond swing by it for something? Or maybe that was Iron Man? Maybe both? Seems like a place that rains champagne and the finer things.” That would resonate with Greg. Truth was, she hated champagne.

  “You’re intrigued by movies about spies and action heroes?” A dangerous flare lit his eyes, catching her off guard. “Fascinating.”

  “No.�
�� She spun, heading for the kitchen. “But I do like heroes that win at the end of the day.”

  He followed close behind. “You’re an idealist?”

  She shrugged, turning, and found herself nearly nose to nose with him. She wasn’t sure enough about his character profile to commit to one answer over another. An idealist probably wasn’t a good thing to him, which was good because she’d long ago lost her sense of an ideal life. But why take the chance on the wrong answer?

  Before she could change topics, he did. “Let’s play a game.” Inches away, his eyes were wide, pupils fluctuating, and his words carried a whisper of mint.

  What was it with men and their games? She turned to the cabinet and grabbed two glasses and a bottle of wine. “I’m good with a game.”

  He took the bottle from her hand, opened the right drawer to find the corkscrew, and went to work, nodding to his first drawer choice. “I’m a good guesser.”

  “I’ve got my eye on you.” She took the offered glass of wine. “Does that mean I’m predictable?”

  “Not at all. But that’s why we have the game.” He winked, surprising her. “Pepsi or Coke?”

  “Pepsi.”

  He scrunched his nose. “Beer or bourbon?”

  “Bourbon.”

  That, he nodded to. “Hero who saves the day or villain proves himself right in the end?”

  She put her hands on her hips, shaking her head. “That’s a trick question.”

  “But your answer is very important.”

  She sipped her wine. “Some things a girl has to keep to herself.”

  “That sounds like a challenge to me.”

  The words, coming from six feet of tuxedo-dressed stud, dripping sex, should’ve had an effect on her. Just like always, she enjoyed the attention but nothing else. There wasn’t even a stir within her. She was one hundred percent, absolutely, completely broken.

  She glanced up and saw Greg watching her. Shit. She took a step back and set her glass down. “Tell me about the auction.”

  He took the carefully placed hint and backed away without so much as a faltering step. He really could read people well. She’d have to remember that. Not much would get by him.