The views inside must be to kill for.
Deep breath, Chloe. You can do it.
Turning off the car, I smooth my sweaty palms over my jeans, straighten my shirt, make sure my hair is still in a neat bun, and grab the resume I printed out at the library. I usually interview well, but I’ve never had so much at stake before. Every nerve in my body is on edge, my heart pounding so fast I feel dizzy. Of course, I could also be dizzy because all I’ve had to eat today is the banana, but I don’t want to think about that and the fact that if I don’t get the job, hunger may be the least of my problems.
Resume in hand, I step out of the car. I’m about a half hour early, which is better than being late but not optimal. I was afraid I’d get lost without a GPS, so I left the library and headed over here as soon as the librarian explained where to go and gave me a local map. I didn’t get lost, though, so now all I need is to walk over to that sleek, futuristic-looking front door and ring the doorbell.
Steeling my spine, I prepare to do exactly that when the door swings open, revealing a tall, broad-shouldered man clad in a pair of dark jeans and a white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
“Hi,” I say, putting on a bright smile as I walk toward him. “I’m Chloe Emmons, here to interview for the…” I stop, my breath catching in my lungs as he steps out into the light and a pair of stunning hazel eyes meets mine.
Except “hazel” is too generic a term for them. I’ve never seen eyes like that. A rich, dark amber mixed with forest green, they’re surrounded by thick black lashes and glitter with a peculiar fierceness, an intensity that wouldn’t look out of place on a jungle predator. Tiger eyes, belonging to a man who himself is power and danger personified—a man so cruelly handsome my already-elevated heart rate goes supersonic.
High, wide cheekbones, a straight blade of a nose, jaw sharp enough to cut marble—the sheer symmetry of those striking features would’ve been enough for them to grace the covers of magazines, but when combined with that full, cynically curved mouth, the effect is absolutely devastating. Like his lashes, his eyebrows are thick and black, as is his hair, which is long enough to cover his ears and so straight it looks like a raven’s wing.
Closing the distance between us with long, smooth strides, he extends his hand toward me. “Nikolai Molotov,” he says, pronouncing the name as a Russian native would—though there’s no trace of accent in his deep, rough-silk voice. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
4
Chloe
Dumbstruck, I shake his hand. It’s big and strong, his lightly tanned skin warm as his long fingers wrap around mine and squeeze with carefully restrained power. A shiver ripples down my spine at the sensation, my body heating all over, and it takes everything I have not to sway toward him as my knees turn to jelly underneath me.
Get a grip, Chloe. This is a potential employer. Get a fucking grip.
With a herculean effort, I pull my hand away and reach for what remains of my composure. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Molotov.” To my relief, my voice comes out steady, my tone calm and friendly, as befits a person interviewing for a job. Taking a half-step back, I smile up at my host. “I’m sorry I’m a bit early.”
His tiger eyes gleam brighter. “No problem. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Chloe. And please, call me Nikolai.”
“Nikolai,” I repeat, my stupid heartbeat accelerating further. I don’t understand what’s happening to me, why I’m having this reaction to this man. I’ve never been one to lose my mind over a chiseled jaw and washboard abs, not even when I was a hormonal teenager. While my friends were crushing on football players and movie stars, I dated boys whose personalities I liked, whose minds attracted me more than their bodies. For me, sexual chemistry has always been something that develops over time rather than being there from the start.
Then again, I’ve never met a man who exudes such raw animal magnetism.
I didn’t know men like this existed.
Focus, Chloe. He’s most likely married.
The thought is like a splash of cold water in my face, jerking me back to the reality of my situation. What the fuck am I doing, drooling over some kid’s father? I need this job to survive. The forty-mile drive here ate more than a quarter tank of gas, and if I don’t earn some money soon, I’ll be stranded, a sitting duck for the killers coming after me.
The heat inside me cools at the thought, and when Nikolai says, “Follow me,” and walks back into the house, my nerves jangle with anxiety instead of whatever it was that came over me at the sight of him.
Inside, the house is as ultra modern as it is on the outside. All around me are floor-to-ceiling windows with stunning views, modern-art-museum-worthy decorations, and sleek furniture that looks like it came straight out of some interior designer’s showroom. Everything is done in shades of gray and white, softened in a few places by natural wood and stone accents. It’s beautiful and more than a little intimidating, just like the man in front of me, and as he leads me through an open-layout living room to a spiral wood-and-glass staircase in the back, I can’t help feeling like a mangy pigeon that’s accidentally flown into a gilded concert hall.
Tamping down on the unsettling sensation, I say, “You have a beautiful house. Have you been living here long?”
“A few months,” he replies as we go up the stairs. He glances at me. “What about you? You said in your cover letter you’re on a road trip?”
“That’s right.” Feeling on firmer ground, I explain that I graduated from Middlebury College in June and decided to see the country before diving into the working world. “But then of course, I saw your listing,” I conclude, “and it sounded too perfect to pass up, so here I am.”
“Yes, indeed,” he says softly as we stop in front of a closed door. “Here you are.”
My breath hitches again, my pulse speeding up uncontrollably. There’s something unnerving in the darkly sensual curve of his mouth, something almost… dangerous in the intensity of his stare. Maybe it’s the unusual color of his eyes, but I feel distinctly uneasy when he presses his palm to an unobtrusive panel on the wall and the door swings open in front of us, spy-movie style.
“Please,” he murmurs, motioning for me to enter, and I do so, doing my best to ignore the unsettling sensation that I’m entering a predator’s lair.
The “lair” turns out to be a large, sunlit office. Two of the walls are made entirely of glass, revealing breathtaking mountain vistas, while a sleek L-shaped desk in the middle holds several computer monitors. To the side is a small round table with two chairs, and that’s where Nikolai leads me.
Hiding a relieved exhale, I take a seat and lay my resume on the table in front of him. Clearly, I’m on edge, my nerves so frayed after the past month that I’m seeing danger everywhere. This is an interview for a tutor position, nothing more, and I need to get a hold of myself before I blow it.
Despite the admonition, my pulse spikes again as Nikolai leans back in his chair and regards me with those unsettlingly beautiful eyes. I can feel the growing dampness of my palms, and it’s all I can do not to wipe them again on my jeans. As ridiculous as it is, I feel stripped bare by that gaze, all my secrets and fears exposed.