8. Viviana

I have to get out of here.

Years ago, when I first brought Dante to the city, I had an escape plan. There was a Go Bag permanently stationed by the front door and a roll of cash in the freezer.

Then Dante learned to crawl and his favorite activity was unpacking the Go Bag and wedging the contents between the cushions of the couch.

The roll of money in the freezer lasted a little longer, but last year, he needed tubes in his ears to stop the onslaught of nonstop ear infections and I had to buy a new window A/C when the landlord refused to replace our old one during a heat wave.

Now, I have nothing except a deep-seated instinct to run and a five-year-old who loves his school and his friends and the glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling. He's going to hate me for ripping us away from his life.

My horoscope today told me to "be decisive and confident." What it failed to mention is that a person from my past was coming to royally fuck my shit up.

A sharp elbow in my side sends me jolting like I've been electrocuted. Water glasses around the table slosh and every single set of eyes are locked on me. I grimace my apology to the shareholders, avoiding eye contact with the broad-shouldered devil stationed next to the door. Mikhail's position right by the only exit is not an accident, I'm sure.

Instead of looking his way, I force my attention to Steve, the owner of the elbow.

"Yes?" I whisper, glaring at him.

How dare he and his halitosis draw attention to me. As if a set of ice blue eyes haven't already been drilling into my skull for the last hour.

"Um…" he draws out. His onion breath might as well be a green cloud between us. "Mr. Novikov is talking to you."

I frown. "What?"

"Mr. Novikov," he repeats slowly. "He said your name."

No, he didn't. I know what it sounds like when he says my name. I've had countless dirty dreams of nothing but him saying my name. I would know if he'd said?—

"Margaret?" Mikhail taps his pen on the table like he's trying to get the attention of an easily-distracted cat. "Can you hear me, Margaret?"

Oh.He didn't buy the fake name before. He definitely won't buy it now.

I smile politely at him, my cheeks practically cracking under the strain. "Yes?"

"Do these valuations look right to you?"

God, he's gorgeous.Mikhail arches a brow, highlighting the angular slant of his cheekbones and the square line of his jaw. This man might as well be carved from marble. How am I supposed to think about any numbers with this face in front of me?

How am I supposed to think about these numbers when the only number running through my head is the very small one in my bank account?

I can't afford to run, but I don't have a choice. I have to?—

"Margaret." He cracks the fake name like a whip and I jump to my feet.

"I'm not feeling well," I blurt.

Then I sprint out of the room.

As far as exits go, no one would call that smooth. But once I'm in the hallway, I don't care. I can breathe again.

I fill and empty my lungs in deep, even breaths. Decisive and confident. I need to be decisive and confident.

I decisively, confidently swipe my phone off of my desk and make a confident decision to flee this building. The rest of the decisions, I'll make on the train. Confidently.

But I'm only halfway to the bank of elevators when the door to the boardroom opens. Mikhail thunders towards me like a storm cloud. A force of nature. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't falter. Before I can even consider dodging him, he grabs my arm and yanks me into his office.

It still smells like Mr. Fredrickson. Like cheap aftershave and the honey mustard pretzels he kept stashed in his bottom drawer for a mid-afternoon snack.

Then the door closes and Mikhail is in front of me, close enough that all I smell is cedar and mint. All I can see is the broad expanse of his chest.

And all I can think is, I'll never be free of him.

"Where were you going?" he demands coolly.

"I told you: I don't feel well."

"We were in a meeting."

"If you'd like me to go back and throw up on the shareholders, say the word," I snap. "I'll be sure to make note of ‘violent puking' in the minutes."

Mikhail almost looks amused, but his face is incapable of joy. There is only scrutiny and self-assuredness.

"You don't look like you're going to be sick. How do I know you're not lying about this, too?"

"Mr. Fredrickson trusted me." That's not true. He demanded a different doctor's note every single day when I had the flu last year.

"That's because he didn't know who you really are." Mikhail towers over me. "Viviana."

My stomach flutters. I might actually be sick. My body isn't sure how to handle my worst nightmare and most frequent fantasy coming true at the same time.

"My name is Margaret."

He growls low in his chest. "I know who you are. I could never forget."

He barely even spoke to me that night. I don't know this man. And yet… he's right. I never forgot the sound of his voice. His smell. This thing between us was—is—primal. It's pheromones or chemistry. Every time I see Mikhail, my body goes into fight, flight, or fuck mode.

I turn away from him long enough to see a large bouquet on his desk. Two dozen red roses. A card with a heart scribbled in the corner is tied to the neck of the vase.

"Who are the flowers from?" I blurt.

"Don't change the subject."

"I'm not. I'm just curious." Yes, curiosity. That's what this pit yawning open in the bottom of my stomach is. Simple, innocent curiosity. "Are they from your wife?"

He snorts. "Jealous, Viviana?"

I wish he'd stop saying my name. It's been too long since I heard it. It's doing things to me.

"My name is Margaret," I repeat with as much conviction as I can muster. "I have no reason to be jealous of my boss's wife sending him flowers. I think it's sweet."

He takes another step towards me. "I think you're lying."

"I'm not."

I meant it. I think it's sweet that some woman out there has seen him without his shirt on and gets to kiss his mouth whenever she wants. Maybe he even has kids with her by now and I'm happy for them, too. I'm thrilled that they get a father while Dante just has me.

I'm over the moon about it. Super fucking thrilled. Couldn't be happier if I tried.

"I can see it written all over your face. The lies. The fear." He dips his head low, his breath hot on my cheek. "I can fucking smell it on you, Viviana."

I swallow and stare at some point just past his ear. I can't bring myself to look at him. "I don't know what you're talking about."

He hooks a finger under my chin and lifts my face to his. "Look at me."

Hell no. Looking at you is how I got into this mess in the first place.

"No."

"Why not?" he grits out.

"Because you keep calling me by someone else's name! And because you're my boss. It's inappropriate for us to?—"

Mikhail's hand bands around my neck and he's kissing me.

Between one second and the next, I'm transported. Back to that bridal suite. To the night Mikhail saved me from a lifetime of being someone else's pawn.

To the night he gave me the greatest gift I've ever received.

I should push him away, but six years' worth of unspoken gratitude and pent-up sexual frustration pour out of me instead.

Between fight, flight, or fuck, I've made my choice.

I hook my hands over his shoulders and hold him close.

Everything about Mikhail is hard, but his lips are soft. His tongue slips confidently between my teeth. He tilts my jaw and claims my mouth in hot strokes. I moan when his hand slips around my thigh, hooking my knee over his hip.

Holy hell, it's been a long time.Too long.

When Mikhail pulls away, I chase after him, my lips parted.

He presses his forehead to mine, breathing heavily. "I'd never forget that taste. I know it's you, Viviana."

His words are the equivalent of an ice-cold shower. They snap me out of my lust-filled delirium and I slam my palms against his chest.

He doesn't even flinch, so I slide away from him, edging around the office towards the door. "Don't touch me."

"Is that what the moan meant?"

My legs are trembling. I really would have let him take me on Mr. Fredrickson's desk.

What in the hell is wrong with me?

"Stay away from me," I warn again, a little redundantly.

Then I yank the office door open and run.