Chapter 8

Alek stood in front of the sink. He grabbed the dish soap and squeezed way too much into the water. A mountain of white bubbles instantly exploded out of the basin.

He frowned. He picked up a sponge and scrubbed the plate aggressively. He pushed too hard. The wet, soapy plate shot out of his hands like a slippery fish.

It plummeted toward the stainless steel bottom. Emma gasped. She lunged forward and reached into the sink to catch it.

Her hand clamped down right over Alek's hand. Their skin pressed together under the warm, soapy water.

An electric shock ripped through Emma's arm. Her breath hitched.

Alek froze completely. He looked down at their hands. Her fingers were pale and slender against his. His heart skipped a violent beat and started hammering against his ribs.

Emma realized how close they were standing. The heat radiating from his chest warmed her shoulder. Her face burned red. She yanked her hand back as if she had been burned.

"I... I can wash them," she stuttered, reaching for the sponge.

Alek shifted his body, blocking her reach. His voice was low and rough. "I've got it. Go do your work."

Emma took two steps back. Her pulse was racing. She watched him awkwardly but stubbornly clean the soap off the plates and set them in the drying rack.

Alek grabbed a paper towel and dried his hands. He turned around. His dark eyes locked onto hers. The air in the kitchen grew thick and heavy.

Emma couldn't handle the intensity of his stare. She cleared her throat loudly. "I'm going to take a nap," she blurted out. She turned and practically sprinted down the hall.

Alek watched her run away. The corners of his mouth lifted into a real smile. He listened until he heard the bedroom door click shut. Then, the smile vanished.

He walked into his study and locked the door. His face turned ice-cold.

He walked over to the window and stared down at the Manhattan traffic. His brain processed every detail of the last two days.

Her cooking skills. Her absolute refusal to keep the luxury bags. Her violent rejection of her ex-boyfriend. And that instinctive dive to save a cheap plate.

Alek came to a terrifying conclusion. This was not PTSD. This was not a trauma response. It was as if a completely different soul was living inside her body.

He walked to his desk. He unlocked a hidden drawer and pulled out a black satellite phone.

He dialed an internal encrypted line. It rang twice before it was picked up.

"Yeah, boss?" a familiar voice answered. It was Dale Cooke, his head of security.

"Drop everything," Alek ordered, his voice hard. "I need a Level One background check on Emma Obrien."

Dale let out a low whistle. "Your wife? Level One?"

"Everything," Alek demanded. "Medical records before and after the suicide attempt. Psychiatric evaluations. Find out every doctor she ever spoke to."

"You got it, boss," Dale said, hanging up.

Alek tossed the phone back into the drawer. A dangerous light burned in his eyes. Whoever she was, he was going to rip off her mask.

In the master bedroom, Emma tossed and turned on the bed. She couldn't sleep. The ghost of his touch still burned on her hand.

She slapped her own cheeks. Stop it, she told herself. He is the villain of the book. He will get his money back and leave you.

To distract herself, she checked her phone. The second Hermes bag had sold.

The money gave her a sense of security. She decided to go to the bank to open a new account that the original owner's creditors couldn't touch.

She got out of bed, put on a black trench coat, and grabbed her sunglasses.

As she walked past the study, she heard the low murmur of Alek's voice through the heavy door. She stopped. Her brow furrowed. Who was he calling if he was totally bankrupt?