The Agreement (Darkest Lies Trilogy Book 1) by Bethany-Kris (autobiographies to read .txt) 📗

the high vibrating inside of her like the wings of a hummingbird.

Just like that.

It all vanished into thin air.

But it wasn’t that simple, and just because the feeling was gone didn’t mean her memories were. A shudder ran down Karine’s spine as hot tears stung the backs of her eyelids. The kiss might be over, and it would likely never happen again, but she could still feel it.

And Roman.

If only that meant something.

Except it couldn’t.

FOURTEEN

“She is spoken for.”

Roman stiffened where he stood in the darkness, positive the woman couldn’t see him. But that meant nothing if she still knew he was there. And as it seemed, she did.

Fuck.

“Sir,” she added, quieter.

And fast.

Like she wanted him to know she understood her place against him, and for a second, it took him by surprise. There was a difference between respecting someone’s place, and making one know it.

The first statement would have been enough of a warning, but the second actually made him pause. Leaning forward a bit, and moving enough of a step to be seen in the shadows, the woman who had spoken to him—bold enough to warn him to stay away—also called him sir and wouldn’t meet his eyes.

He hadn’t bothered to get close enough to any man in Chicago that he’d been invited into one’s home where a wife, daughter, mother or otherwise might be present. None except Maxim, and the few women he’d seen draped over the arms of men at parties and business meetings.

Docile women.

Quiet, compliant women.

He didn’t come from that kind of world—his mother humbled his father daily as a form of foreplay that Roman really didn’t enjoy knowing about in the first damn place. He wasn’t accustomed to females that were to be seen, but not heard. And he couldn’t particularly say he liked it, either.

It was that reason alone, and the fact that when the woman in the doorway did step outside, let the door close behind her with a loud bang that didn’t even earn a flinch from her, she did dare to meet his eyes. He saw fear there, but she did it.

He respected that.

“Please,” she said, still staring at him, unmoving.

She was the same woman he saw with Karine that first time at the pool, and here she was, interrupting them again—he didn’t think that was a coincidence. Roman never believed in those.

It was the strangest thing, but at her unwavering, knowing stare nailing him to the brick at his back, he almost felt the urge to explain. Or lie. He got the feeling she was daring him to say anything at all—try it—but the soft pleading of her expression even despite the fire in her eyes made him feel guilty.

Like somehow, he’d crossed some line. And not one he should feel particularly good about. What had she first said? Karine was ... spoken for?

Roman had no idea how it all happened. It took him by surprise. He didn’t expect Karine to kiss him, but the way the woman behaved suggested he hadn’t been doing anything wrong. She liked it.

Clearly.

“What are you talking about?” Roman asked then, foregoing the safety of the shadows altogether and stepping closer to the restaurant’s door.

The woman was older—Roman’s mother’s age, or a little more—but the clothes she wore made it very clear she was not related to Maxim Yazov. The gray tunic, long-sleeve woven dress and comfortable, but practical, black ankle boots with the one inch heel was more of a uniform. Especially in comparison to the ten-thousand-dollar custom tailored suits worn by the men inside that restaurant. Even the servers had more expensive heels on their feet.

“I don’t know what happened here,” she told him when it appeared like Roman wasn’t going to ask again. “And I don’t want to know. I didn’t see anything, but if you have a heart, you will leave the poor girl alone.”

What?

“Poor girl?”

Roman chuckled.

The woman’s eyes turned cold and harsh in a blink.

“You were in the restaurant earlier. I saw you. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about,” she snapped back fast.

Not particularly.

It was true that Roman had turned up here because Josef reminded him again this morning that the boss expected him to be at this dinner. Despite the fact he couldn’t seem to make it clear enough that he had no real interest in participating in the general semantics and theatrics of the bratva, everyone seemed determined to continue to require it from him regardless.

Apparently, Maxim and Leonid wanted him to be a part of the celebrations. So, fine. He showed up early, Roman kept to himself and didn’t make like he cared to talk or stay long, once he’d showed his face to the boss and Leonid, he handed over five-k in cash stuffed inside an envelope. The standard gift from one made man to another for typical familial celebrations, which was what Josef assured he had heard this event would be. Thankfully, the man had been shadowing him a lot less lately—whatever the reason for the change, Roman couldn’t say.

Then, he was out of there. Roman didn’t care what these people were celebrating. He didn’t want to take part, or pretend to. The least he could do was not stick around and act like it matted. It was none of his business. He figured he would find out eventually—what the celebrations were about if it was actually important or might make a difference to how he did business in Chicago.

He doubted it would.

Except he hadn’t hightailed it out of the restaurant before he had the pleasure of seeing Karine walk into the restaurant. In a slinky, champagne-toned dress with a slit in the thigh and showing so much skin, that made her look like she belonged in the Playboy Mansion. The most intriguing part about Karine was she had no idea the effect she had on men.

On every man in the room.

In fact, he watched every head turn.

But she didn’t.

It was at that point when Roman decided he had to get