Into My Arms Read Online Free PDF Page A

than a heartbeat. I don’t weigh much, but I’m not in the featherlight category either. That guy is strong.
    And Z isn’t looking at either of us. Instead, he inspects the sky as if some secret is written in the stars.
    Katya turns to his boss. “You have further need of me?”
    No answer. Only a brusque head shake in the negative. Katya is back in the helicopter, and as I follow Z across the lawn, it takes off.
    Katya isn’t exactly Mr. Comfort but having him there as a buffer did help ease the tension. Now I’m alone. With Z.
    And still don’t know why.
    “When will you be ready to brief me on the weekend’s meeting schedule?”
    “Meetings?” he replied, lowering his head to give me a sidewise glance.
    “Yes, you brought me here for a reason. One I’m still waiting for.”
    “Come, Bethanny.” He sets a brisk pace and I have to trot to keep up.
    “Why do you keep calling me that?”
    He shoves his hands deep into his trouser pockets. “That is your name, is it not?”
    “But no one calls me Bethanny in real life. Not even my parents.”
    “I like it,” he says firmly, as if that’s all there is to say. “We have much to discuss tonight, but first Koroleva needs to be returned to the water.” He presses his thumb to a screen and the front door swings open. We step inside and dimmer lights come on, revealing a cavernous space decorated in a spare mid-century modern style. There are wraparound windows that must hold jaw-dropping coastal views come daylight.
    “This way,” he says, the sharp staccato of his shoes ringing out over the stone floor. There is an aquarium opposite a large stone fireplace. It’s empty and he gestures that I’m to release my charge.
    I pour Koroleva into a tank roughly the size of an Olympic swimming pool. I’m kidding, but not really. Pretty sure I could swim laps in here.
    “Drink?” He walks to a bar and opens up a freezer hidden behind wood paneling. “I favor Stolichnaya Elit.”
    “I’m not sure what that means.” He isn’t asking me to sit. Do I make the assumption? Or wait? God, I hate this dynamic, the fact that he holds all the cards and all I’ve held tonight is that fish.
    “Vodka made from pure Himalayan water and Russian winter wheat.”
    He studies my face, as if checking for a reaction. Should I look interested? Or blasé, as if midnight vodka cocktails are my norm?
    “The glass container is handblown,” he continues.
    I elect for honesty. Maybe that will set the tone. “It probably costs my share of a month’s rent.”
    “Three thousand a bottle,” he answers matter-of-factly.
    What? How will I swallow that? How does he swallow that? Isn’t Grey Goose good enough? “Correction, more than my share of the rent. I do need that drink, just to absorb the information.”
    He pours a healthy shot into two clear glasses and takes one, warming it in his palm before setting it back down. “If vodka is too cold, it freezes the taste buds and you will not get an adequate sense of the flavor. If it is too warm, the flavor grows less discernible.” He strides to a black leather couch.
    I walk to the bar and pick up the glass he left for me. “Do we cheers or something. What’s the saying? Nostrovia ?”
    “ Na Zdorovie .” He sits and crosses a foot over his knee, removing his tie with a smirk.
    I take a sip—maybe that will grant me patience—and glance around the room. It’s the same as Zavtra Tech, sleek, cold, modern, no hint that it’s a home that’s ever known joy or laughter. The mantel above the fireplace is devoid of photographs and an unbearable sense of aloneness hollows my chest.
    “Stop,” he orders.
    I freeze despite the growing impulse to slam it back out of spite.
    “You’re not a vodka drinker.” A statement not a question.
    “In college vodka cranberry and I were good buds—”
    “I don’t mean drinking like an American.”
    I glare at his blatant mockery. “Um, I am an American, ergo, I drink like an