Chapter 2

ARIEL

I never knew that the expression "When one door closes, another opens" could happen quite so literally. I thought that was the kind of thing a lazy copywriter puts on Chinese takeout fortune cookies.

But scarcely two minutes after the bathroom door closes on one chapter of my life, the stall door swings open to begin another.

My first thought when I see him is, Damn-I really nailed it.

Because the man standing framed in the stall entryway is exactly how I pictured him to a freaking T.

My gaze starts at his feet, which I've already spent an exhaustive amount of mental energy analyzing. It rises up the streamlined pleat of his ash-gray suit pants, past strong thighs and a lean waist, grazing over how his white shirt clings to six very clearly defined abs, up to where the narrow V of his tieless collar reveals a smattering of dark chest hair and the briefest glimpse of a tattoo etched into the tan skin just beneath his throat.

From there, it keeps going. It drinks in the blunt, brutal cliff of his chin. The sloping jawline stubbled with the beginnings of a beard. A proud, jutting noise, cheekbones that Tom Welling would slay for, and eyes so blue that I can feel the cold burn of their stare. His hair is dark, curly, and tousled where it falls over his forehead.

My second thought is, The CW fucked up. They should've cast him.

Even now, after hearing him casually order some subordinate to commit murder, I can't help but feel that girlish giggle bubbling up inside me. Same as twelve-year-old me felt when Superman rose out of that cornfield in his birthday suit, like, Golly gee, you sure are handsome!

I wouldn't dare say that out loud, though.

Because Superman here looks like he's ready to commit some murder of his own.

His hands are flexing at his sides. I see more tattoos stamped into his knuckles-letters in Cyrillic, which immediately makes it click in my head that it was Russian he was speaking into the phone a moment ago. Thin, white scars run between the ink. Those hands look highly capable. I'd very much like to not find how just how capable.

"I'd say 'Take a picture; it will last longer,' but you've been staring at me long enough that I'm pretty fucking sure you have it all memorized by now," he spits. The voice matches his eyes: cold as the grave, rough, relentless.

I start to squeak, "Sorry," then I stop and scold myself for the girly uptalk intonation and for even daring to apologize in the first place. Then I remember that I am in fact in the wrong bathroom and I start to say it again. Then I stop and scold myself for stuttering like a buffoon. Then I⁠-

"For God's sake, spit it out," the man snaps.

I frown and squint. "You're kind of an asshole."

Gotta give credit where it's due: that's certainly not a meek, simpy apology. Is it a smart thing to say, though?

Probably not.

To my surprise, the man blinks placidly. He doesn't smile-I'd worry about the structural integrity of his broodiness if he even tried-but some imperceptible portion of his frigid rage fades away.

"'Kind of' doesn't even begin to cover it."

"An honest asshole, at least," I concede.

He shakes his head. "Definitely not that." Then he eyes me and holds out a hand. "Are you going to squat on that toilet like a gargoyle for our entire conversation, or would you like help down?"

I eye the hand he's offering. It's even more intimidating up close. I know some girls are into guys' hands, and I get that, and it really is a very nice hand, aesthetically speaking.

But something about the scars in combination with the easy, breezy, beautiful murder threat he issued in the very recent past is giving me pause.

Carefully, using the handrail attached to the stall wall instead of the male hand attached to the devil in the gray suit, I lower myself from my toilet perch and assume a quasi-normal human posture.

"It's fine; I can do it mys⁠-"

I promptly collapse.

It's my knees that betray me. Thirty-three doesn't seem that old in the grand scheme of things, but I'm a New Yorker born and bred, so I've put a lot of miles on these joints of mine, walking up avenues and down streets since I was old enough to put one foot in front of the other. Apparently, five minutes of holding a power squat on the Met's toilets is asking too much of what cartilage remains.

I'm hurtling towards a hot date with the floor when the man moves. He's fast and languid at the same time, and I could almost swear I see him roll his eyes as he intervenes.

Then that same hand that I turned down a moment ago loops around my waist and stops me from concussing myself with my own pride. Effortlessly, without losing so much as a hair out of place, he drags me back to my feet and settles me there.

The hand, though, stays plastered to my hip.

"You're kind of an idiot," he says matter-of-factly.

He's kidding-I think he's kidding, at least, because he's using my own words to mock me and those eyes of his are gleaming in a mischievous sort of way-but the cement-mixer-churning-glaciers quality of his voice doesn't really change.

Playing along, I reply, "'Kind of' doesn't even begin to cover it." I glance down at his hand, huge and splayed across my waist. "But thank you for saving me."

He nods, once, briskly, then peels his hand away. The heat and pressure of it lingers long after it's gone.

"I think it's safe to assume you're not a spy," the man drawls. "Either that or you're the worst one in the history of the profession."

I force out a wheezy, panicked laugh. "I'm a professional spy, actually. In a manner of speaking."

His forehead wrinkles, those thick, dark brows arrowing downward. "You can't be ser⁠-"

"Reporter," I blurt before the murdery glint in his eyes comes roaring back to life. "I was making a joke. Not a very good one, apparently."

He keeps frowning, but the wrinkles smooth away enough to let me breathe again. "You're a reporter," he repeats, stroking his jawline. "Hm. Here to report on...?"

I wave a hand in the general direction of the ballroom where tonight's gala is taking place. "The illustrious generosity of our fine host and his many important charitable causes, for which he cares quite deeply and genuinely and definitely not just for the PR and tax write-offs."

The man makes a short barking noise. It takes me a second to realize that that's what passes for a laugh from him. "I don't think Leander can even spell 'generous.'"

I do a double-take. There aren't many people in this world willing to talk shit about Leander Makris, much less to a complete stranger. The man has a sufficiently bloody reputation that it's just not worth the risk.

This man, however, couldn't possibly care any less. As I try to puzzle out just who he is that he'd dare speak so freely about a guy with more murder and racketeering allegations than Brooklyn has baristas, he rakes a hand through his hair and checks his watch.