Page 33 of Shadowed Agenda

“Take one,” Pavlo said, plunking the ibuprofen bottle and water glass on the coffee table. He walked over to the microwave on the long counter behind the dining table and placed the pad inside.

“The container says not to exceed four at a time,” Regan said, reading the prescription label. “Maybe I should take two.”

The microwave beeped, and Pavlo carried the heating pad over with a grin. “Babe, I’ve got a foot and at least a hundred and fifty pounds on you. Only take one.”

Regan opened the bottle and shook one tablet into her palm. Pavlo passed her the glass of water.

“It takes fifteen to twenty minutes to kick in,” he said, handing her the heating pad.

“Thank you,” Regan said, placing the bag across her stomach as he headed to the bedroom. The warmth from the pad soothed her stomach muscles. Once the painkillers took effect, she’d be fine and back to normal by morning.

Regan toed her black high heels off, leaned her head against the back of the couch, and closed her eyes. She could hear Pavlo remove his suit jacket and lay it across an armchair. His cell phoned dinged. The end of the couch dipped under his weight. Regan opened her eyes.

Pavlo’s frown had returned as he read the text message. It deepened, and he tapped on the screen. He ran a hand through his hair before sliding beside her and angling his cell phone so she could see the screen.

“Do you recognize this guy?” he asked.

“I’m not sure. I think it’s the runner who attacked me in Central Park,” Regan replied immediately. She hadn’t paid attention to the man.

“His fingerprints were all over the motorcycle helmet. The FBI identified him as William Jones, a small-time criminal. He’s a core member of the group of radicals supporting the Senator.”

“Someone is backing Isla’s new business,” Regan said. “It was the price for her to agree to talk me into the book signing. Is someone helping her convince me, or are the Senator’s supporters acting alone?”

“We have too little information to know.” Pavlo placed his arm on the couch behind her head and leaned into her to adjust the fuzzy photo he’d swiped to next. His firm body pressed against hers, distracting Regan. The painkillers had done their job. She set the heating pad to the side. The ache in her stomach was gone. The ache building low in her body had nothing to do with the attack in the elevator.

“He could be the guy who dressed up as a homeless person,” Pavlo said, unaware of the heat building inside her.

“I can’t tell. The clothes, watch cap, and sunglasses were a good disguise. It could have been anyone,” Regan said. Relief shot through her as Pavlo leaned forward and placed his cell phone on the coffee table. She needed space between them, or she’d do something foolish she’d regret.

There was a connection building, one she was tempted to explore, but now was not the time.

Pavlo didn’t move. Instead, he reached out, and his fingers curled under her chin. He turned her head and tipped it up. Bending his head, his mouth captured hers.

Regan knew she should push him away, but his lips were too persuasive, and she kissed him with a hunger that surprised her.

He responded, his kiss demanding more. Her lips opened in response, and his tongue darted inside. A whirlwind of emotions swirled through her.

Pavlo cupped her face with his hands and gently placed a kiss on both of her eyelids. His hands pushed the tight skirt of her dress up to her hips. He lifted her and placed her on his lap, straddling him. She felt his hardness beneath her.

“Regan,” Pavlo whispered, his voice ragged and low as he nuzzled the hollow of her neck. His musky aftershave surrounded her. It suited him.

She could hardly breathe as he feathered kisses along her collarbone and nibbled her earlobe.

Regan wanted this, wanted to explore the attraction she felt for Pavlo, but deep down, she knew too much had happened in her past. The part of her that had loved with reckless abandon had been ripped away.

Regan pushed her hands against Pavlo’s chest. His eyes met hers, and she quickly looked away. “We… I can’t do this.”

He said nothing as she slipped off his lap, tugged the hem of her dress down, and stood. She smoothed down her skirt.

“Why did your marriage to Nicholas end?”

Regan jerked her head up. Pavlo’s forehead furrowed with concern.

“It…it didn’t work out,” she murmured, not wanting to discuss her failed marriage. She walked past Pavlo, but his hand shot out, caught hers, and tugged her back against him.

Pavlo cupped her chin with the other hand and searched her upturned face for answers. “Why? What did he do to you?”

“Once we were married, Nicholas had a flavor of the week, and it was never me,” Regan said, blinking back tears. It had been almost three years, and it still hurt. “When we found out I was having a girl, he only came home at night if there was a function he needed to attend. Nicholas was disappointed it wasn’t a boy, a male, to inherit his business.”