CHAPTER ONE
Every Wednesday, at precisely four o’clock, Everly Andrews enters my bookstore to pick up her latest package of romance novels. We’ve been doing this for over a month now. She gives me a list of five books—sometimes ten if she wants to gift a few to her friends—and then I give her a future date. Sure, the books come in quite a bit faster than a week, but it’s the shortest amount of time between her visits I can allow.
Any shorter, and I’d put her in danger. And that is not acceptable.
You see, I don’t actually sell romance novels. I don’t sell books at all. My store is a front. I’m a death dealer—an avenging angel to some…while others would pay millions to see me die. I can’t blame them really. An eye for an eye, and all that.
Everly is the only one in this city I talk to on a regular basis, even if she’s the one doing most of the talking while I answer as vaguely as possible without sounding like an arse. In any case, it’s nearly four and I’m bound to start pacing if she doesn’t show up soon. Habitual people like Everly are a comfort to me, and yet that comfort is their greatest weakness.
A weak spot in their armor, if you will.
The bells on the front door ring, and I let out a breath. I don’t particularly like the jingle, but in my line of work, a bloke needs the extra time it affords.
Automatically, my hand goes to the gun strapped under the counter, only relaxing when I catch a glimpse of mahogany waves gleaming in the rays of light that seem to follow her inside.
Here comes my weak spot. My solnyshko. My sunshine.
“Hi, Roman,” she calls out as she walks to the counter, as if her appearance might spook me. Though she wouldn’t be far off, since I almost shot her the first time she entered my shop.
No one comes to my bookstore, and I make sure it looks as dark and dank as possible to turn away the tourists. But none of that, including my scowl, deters Everly. For that, I’m curious, thankful, and terrified, because I only bring death to those who are seen in my company.
“Ms. Andrews,” I say, placing her package on the counter.
She gives me a sunny smile. “You know, I’m pretty sure we’re the same age, so I think you can call me Everly.”
Ah, solnyshko, that will never happen. “As you wish,” I say with a shrug, and her beautiful eyes go all soft, like I’ve just spoken the most romantic words in existence.
Her emerald gaze searches my face. “You still didn’t say it.”
Clever girl. “Shall we open your package?”
Dainty hands, with soft, blue-polished nails trimmed short, tap the box twice before settling on top. She gives me a crooked smile. “You’re allowed to open it before I get here.”
“Duly noted.” But then how would I prolong her visit? I grab a box cutter and motion for her to move her hands. Hands that I want to touch, hands that I want to feel run down my body, or do something as simple as hold. Quickly, I split open the box and check it before permitting Everly to dig inside.
Always, I’m concerned my enemies will target her, no matter how innocent our contact and how damn reserved I am in her presence.
“Oooh, the latest Zoe Ambrose, or should I say, Romanov?” Everly sighs, her expression turning dreamy. “Can you imagine marrying a Hollywood movie star who’s rumored to be the son of the head of a Russian mafia family?”
I don’t have to imagine it. “It’s not something I contemplate on a daily basis.”
Everly snorts, and then winks at me—something I find absolutely charming. “And they say the British have no sense of humor.”
I’m not British, but the accent suits me. As does my name. The location. Everything about Raleigh, North Carolina suits me.
Since I moved here, I’ve trained myself to think like an Englishman, to speak, eat, and make assumptions about Yanks. It’s easier this way, and I’m less likely to fall into old habits.
“How is business?” I ask, setting the box cutter on the counter. A conversation about the internet-based company she runs seems to be banal enough.
She beams at me. “Two more new clients this week. One makes the most adorable bows for little girls, and the other makes the cutest sweaters for dogs. When I’m seventy-five, I hope to have just a tenth of Ms. Mabel and Mrs. Jemima’s energy.” The way Everly talks about the women she helps makes me smile inwardly. She gushes over their wares, using words like adorable, cutest, fabulous, and super yummy. In reality, these women should gush over her. “Sales are already pouring in like crazy, and I was able to give my two weeks’ notice at the YMCA.”
“Congratulations.” I smile a little. This is excellent news. There was many a night I kept my shop open just to make sure she got home okay. Late nights and a shady downtown area are not safe for a woman walking alone.
She traces a pattern on the countertop, right beside her box of books, and then peers up at me through lacy black lashes. “Maybe I could help you, too? I’d be more than happy to set up a site for you on Etsy or eBay.”
“Thank you, but no. Rare books wouldn’t do well.” And there’s no way I’d advertise my business’s location. Might as well place a neon arrow pointing at the building.
Everly’s gaze bounces around my shop. I know she wants to say something about my lack of customers, but she doesn’t. She’s too kind. Too soft. Too weak.
No, I remind myself, for some, kindness is a strength.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll go sit and read for while. I don’t want to wait until I get home.” Without waiting for a response, she picks up her books and dashes to the back of the store to sit in the plush club chair I bought just for her.
Bemused, I stare after her.
With a little grin, she settles in the chair and pulls out a book, pretending to read while eying me over the top of the pages. Just like I pretend to work while keeping an eye on her.
“Roman,” she says, taking my breath away as she wriggles out of her coat. Her book nearly falls out of her lap before she catches it.
For a moment, I can only stare at her, at her lush figure flattered by the simple dress she wears. It’s green like her eyes, with a wide, pink belt around the middle. “Yes?” I manage to get out.
The bells on the door ring and a familiar face reflects in the mirror across from me. I clench my jaw. Petrov. Two weeks ago, I had dinner with his brother. That night, his body was found floating in the Seine.
Blissfully unaware of the danger, Everly asks, “Did you buy the hot chocolate and Granny-Smith-apple-flavored jelly beans just for me?” She holds up the bags of hot cocoa and jelly beans, clearly delighted at the find. My heart turns in my chest. The feeling is odd. It’s dangerous.
Once, on a particularly blustery morning, she had mentioned liking hot chocolate, and I’d spied the bag of jelly beans in her purse. Naturally, I went out and bought every bag I could find while ordering the best hot cocoa money could buy.
Naturally, I’m a stupid fuck.
Petrov smirks as he awaits my answer, beady eyes darting to a smiling Everly, then back to me.
“No. Someone left it here. I have no use for it,” I answer evenly. “Once you’re done checking your order, let me know and I’ll get you sorted before you leave.”
Her face falls, and I want to stab myself in the heart. “Oh,” she says in a small voice. “I’m, uh, ready now.”
Petrov pretends to peruse my shelves while I force myself not to apologize to Everly. “The total comes to twenty-five seventy-four.”
She hands a credit card over and, in less than a minute, our transaction is complete, and she’s walking to the door without a backward glance.
I busy myself with nonexistent paperwork, while watching security monitors concealed under the register. “I’ll be with you momentarily,” I say, as if I have no idea who Petrov is. The bastard disappears from the screen and I start for the gun hidden in the far cabinet.
“Leave the weapon, Nikolai,” he says, walking toward me, and I freeze.