Page 11 of Desperate Measures

Maggie rolled her eyes and put her hands on her slender hips.

“She just owes me, okay?”

“Owes you for what, Maggie?”

My sister huffed a breath and tapped her red fingernails against the emerald gown she had on.

Maggie always wore fucking green. A nod to our Irish heritage I supposed. Or maybe she just liked the dramatic way it brought out her red hair and verdant eyes.

I crossed my arms in front of me. Maggie sighed again. She knew how stubborn I was.

“Fine. A couple of years ago, I walked into a DJ booth at a little hot spot I’d heard about while visiting you. It was in Manhattan. Anyway, I found Michaela Volkov in a bad situation. I helped her, agreed to keep it under wraps, and she agreed to owe me one. This is my one, brother.”

“What kind of bad situation?” I asked, suddenly incensed.

“The kind too many women find themselves in. The kind where she was at the mercy of someone bigger, stronger, and stupid enough to try to touch her.”

“Who fucking touched her?” I growled.

“Why so territorial? Could it be you like the little princess?” Maggie scoffed.

I didn’t bother answering her.

There was some history there. I’d seen Michaela plenty of times when I worked at Volkov Towers. She was impossible to avoid.

Michaela had interned for the company and was always underfoot. I remembered her far too well.

“I’ve met Michaela before. Back when I worked for Volkov Industries. She was a spoiled brat, but if someone hurt her,” I muttered, only able to say half of what I was thinking.

She was beautiful. Smart, too. But she was just a spoiled little rich girl. One who took her good fortune and family ties for granted.

Still, if anyone hurt her, I’d have their fucking necks. My loyalty to Adrik demanded that.

“Don’t worry. I took care of it, brother. Now,” Maggie said, stepping forward and smoothing my lapels, “let me take care of you.”

“Maggie, I haven’t seen Michaela Volkov in years,” I said, trying to reason with my sister.

She was shallow enough to understand my reticence. But as if she prepared for this objection, Maggie handed me her phone. On the screen were photos of Adrik Volkov’s daughter.

My intended.

Holy. Fuck.

Michaela wasn’t a little girl anymore. She was more beautiful than I remembered. Her thick, glossy hair hung down her back in waves, like a river made of pure midnight.

My breath caught as I swiped my finger across the screen, revealing the next image. It was of her profile. Her eyes were closed and her head canted, and it took me a moment to realize the photo was taken while she was at the symphony.

I recognized the logo on the pamphlet she held tightly. Her naturally pink lips were curved down and her expression was heartbreaking, but so damn lovely.

I forced myself to breathe evenly as I swiped again. This time Michaela was smiling at someone, and my chest squeezed tight.

She was stunning when she smiled. I frowned, unable to see who she was looking at like that, and I found myself murderously jealous.

I wanted her smiles.

Me.

Mine.