Tangled Innocence

Chapter 2 Episode 2

When the doors open on the twenty-seventh floor, they deposit me into theoffices of Egorov Industries. In case any visitors are ever uncertain wherethey are, there’s a sign over the receptionist area that has EGOROV inabsolutely massive letters.

That’s par for the course.

Because the man who lent his name to this company has an ego to match.

Right on cue, when I reach my desk, the door to his office opens… andDmitri Egorov emerges.

Let no one say he’s not a looker. He is—even I can’t deny that. Windswepthair, almost black but with a mesmerizing hint of auburn to it. Chin chiseledout of marble. Eyes light gray, piercing, observant, arrogant.

Unlike the stinky men on the elevator, his mint-and-cedar cologne isperfectly calibrated to seduce and intimidate—and unfortunately for me, it’spretty good at both tasks.

Because I know he’s an egotistical maniac and yet I still find myselfwondering what his body looks like beneath the Brioni suit he’s wearing.

And if I’m a sucker for it, you already know that the rest of the women inthis office—or really, in this entire zip code—have been reeled in hook,line, and sinker. Half a dozen perfectly coiffed heads are popping up overthe cubicles at the mere sound of Dmitri’s office door opening.

They’re all hoping for a glance, a smile, a kind word from him.

Keep on hoping, sisters, I wanna tell them. Dmitri Egorov doesn’t know themeaning of “kind.”

But my God, if there were ever a day for him to give me a break, it’d betoday, right? I just don’t know how much more I can take.

The look in his eyes, though, says “mercy” is not high on his to-do list.

“Ms. Turner,” he drawls icily. He flips up his wrist and checks the gleamingPatek Philippe watch he chose today. The embroidered initials on histailored shirt cuff—D.E. in a villainous red thread—flash at me like a wink.“I wasn’t aware that work began at 10:07 A.M. on Tuesdays.”

“And I wasn’t aware that ‘D.E.’ stood for ‘Douchebag Extraordinaire,” Imumble under my breath.

“What was that?” he asks as I get closer.

I sling my bag into the chair behind my desk and paste on a smile.“Nothing, Mr. Egorov. I’m sorry I was late this morning. I had a doctor’sappointment. I did request time off…” Peeking down at my planner, I lookat the date and finish, “three and a half months ago.”

He pauses. His cologne is stronger up close. Mint and cedar, like a winterforest. I do prefer it to Dr. Saeder’s cloying aftershave, though I’d neveradmit that to Dmitri’s face.

“It’s a bad day to be insubordinate, Ms. Turner.”

My smile stays plastered in place. It’s one of those smiles that, if he paidany attention at all, he’d see is hiding a barely-closed box of screams andviolent fantasies about wiping that smug smirk right off his face.

But luckily for me, Dmitri doesn’t care about silly things like “otherpeople’s emotions.” That would just be a very big waste of his veryimportant time.

“Insubordinate? Who, me? I don’t even know the meaning of the word.”

“You apparently don’t know the meaning of the word ‘timely,’ either.Should we step into my office and practice reading a clock together?”

Apropos of absolutely nothing, my mind immediately fills with images ofall the things he and I could do if we “stepped into his office.”

I could plant his toned ass in his chair, wrap his tie around my fist, andshove his face up my skirt to see how well he can tell time with a face full oflady bits.

I could knock him flat on the ground, rip open that infuriatingly well-tailored button-down shirt, and graze my nails down his abs while ridinghim ‘til the cows come home.

I could make him devour me.

I could make him worship me.

I could make him beg me to let him finish—and beg me and beg me and begme, just for the sheer pleasure of leaning down, brushing my glossy lips up

against the shell of his ear, and whispering one of his favorite words rightback to him: “No.”

For the second time today, there’s a man snapping his fingers in my faceand asking if I can hear him. Admittedly, this one is much easier on the eyesthan Dr. Saeder.

But despite my little hate-crush on the bosshole from hell, I don’t intend tobe any nicer to Dmitri Egorov than I was to the incompetent doctor with thenose hair of a wildebeest.

“I’m as capable of hearing you as I am of telling time, Mr. Egorov.” I throwa little extra sauciness on his title.

“Hm.” He tilts his head to the side and looks at me from a new angle. Aninexplicable softness passes over his face. On anyone else, it wouldn’t evenbe noticeable. But it’s such a departure from his usual “hell hath no furylike mine” broodiness that it captures my attention. “Is something wrong,Wren?”

Wren. When he says it like that, with that tone and that look in his eye, Ican’t help but shiver.

It’s wrong for a man to look this beautiful and be this cruel ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the time… then turn around and be nice on the worstday of my life.

I’m thiiis close to breaking down and telling him everything. Rose. Jared.The baby. The mix-up. The last time I saw a positive sign on a pregnancytest and the nightmares that followed that. Hell, give me half a dirty martiniand I’ll start unloading on him about when Susie Coleman wiped a boogeron me in first grade.

Because he doesn’t actually give a s**t, even if he’s doing an awfully goodjob of pretending like he does right now.

Because he’s rich and dangerous and too handsome to waste his breathasking after the problems of the feeble little mortals like me who flit aroundand do his bidding.

So I take a deep breath and give him the only reasonable answer I canafford to give: “No,” I murmur. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine.”

He surveys me for another long minute, that perceptiveness lingering in hissilver eyes. He sees more than he lets on, I think. Or at least, it feels thatway.

I feel naked. Exposed. Trussed up like a butterfly on a pinboard, completelyat his mercy.

And that softness… that tiny, almost-imperceptible tenderness in his facethat says maybe there’s a human with a beating, bleeding heart buriedsomewhere beneath the flawlessly symmetrical bone structure… it stays forjust one moment too long.

I turn away. I can’t let him look at me anymore. “If you need anything, sir,I’ll be at my desk.”

Then I brush past him and into the guts of Egorov Industries. I don’t darelook back. But I can feel his eyes follow me all the way.

The rest of the day is a fight to keep my tears at bay enough for me to readthe words on my computer screen. I tend to Dmitri’s emails, file his papers,prep for his meetings and his travel and his many charity galas.

My work wife s***h bestie, Syrah, pings me on the company chat channellate in the afternoon to ask if I want to hit a happy hour after work.

SYRAH MEHRA: If I don’t get a margarita or five into my bloodstreamASAP, I’m going to put a staple in my eyeball.

My first instinct is to wince. I’m not gonna be having margaritas for a longtime, am I? But Syrah doesn’t know that. I’d planned on keeping the wholesurrogacy thing under wraps for as long as possible at the office.

SYRAH MEHRA: So are you in or are you in???

Biting back my first half-smile of the day, I type back, Lol, so dramatic. Asif your bloodstream isn’t pretty much pure margarita at any given hour ofthe day anyway.

SYRAH MEHRA: Guilty as charged. Sue me. I like Mexican food.

WREN TURNER: Gonna have to pass today, though. I have a thingafter work.

I feel weird as soon as I hit send on the message. A “thing” … Is that thebest way to describe going to potentially meet the man who impregnatedyou from afar without your knowledge? I don’t think English has had theneed to dream up such a word yet. I may be venturing into unexploredterritory here. First woman on the moon type s**t.

My fried-to-hell brain conjures up a brief image of one of Dmitri’s spermcells planting a little flag in my womb and I bust up laughing.

Mostly because, if I don’t laugh, I’ll cry.

SYRAH MEHRA: a THING??? As in, like, a date????!?!!

She follows it up with a frankly impressive string of emojis depicting howshe thinks my night will go. There are a few too many eggplants, peaches,and water droplets for my liking.

WREN TURNER: lol. Not a chance. I’m planning on being a bitter oldspinster with all my cats and knitting.

SYRAH MEHRA: I’ve been to your apartment, babes. You don’t havecats and you don’t knit. And you’re too hot to be bitter and lonely. I couldset you up with someone if you want. I’ve got a cousin…