Tempted by Deception (Deception Trilogy #2) by Rina Kent

God. He’s part of the freaking Russian mafia.

A shiver runs down my spine at the thought. I don’t know anything about the mafia except for The Godfather trilogy, and those films are a far cry from reality.

The real thing must be more dangerous.

Wiping my clammy fingers on my skirt, I tap in my code and get inside.

I throw my bag and keys on the entrance table, trying not to think about what happened on that same table last night. How he owned every inch of me and gave me a dark type of pleasure I’ll never be able to forget.

Shaking my head, I hang my coat and freeze.

Between my two other coats, there’s a different one. Gray. Male.

His.

I kick my shoes away and step inside, the sinking weight that’s been settled over my stomach since this morning lifting with each step I take. My feet come to a halt on the heated flooring at the scene in front of me.

Adrian is placing a few plates on the small dining table situated between the kitchen and the living room.

He’s dressed in his usual black pants and shirt, the first few buttons undone, revealing his hard, muscular chest that I buried my face into last night. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, revealing the intricate design of his tattoos. Both extend in sleeves from his shoulders to above his wrists. Surprisingly, there are none on his chest or back like I’d expect from a gangster.

“You’re back,” he says without lifting his head from his task. There’s a frittata and a big bowl of salad as well as a few cut apples.

“What are you doing?” I murmur, unable to make sense of the situation.

“What does it look like I’m doing? Preparing you dinner.” He still hasn’t met my gaze. “Go wash your hands.”

My feet carry me toward him as if I’m floating on air and I grab his bicep. “I said, what are you doing in my apartment, Adrian? How did you get in?”

He continues setting the plates in a meticulous kind of way—geometric, even. “I saw you put in the code yesterday. Not that it would’ve been a problem if I hadn’t.”

“This is called breaking and entering.”

“Do you always feel the need to label everything, Lenochka?” This time, his gray eyes that are the color of harsh winters collide with mine. “Does it make you feel better?”

“I’m naming things by what they’re called.”

“By all means, do what makes you feel comfortable. Now, go wash your hands so we can eat.”

“And if I don’t want to?”

He releases a breath. “This is one of the situations where you pick your battles. If you don’t, I’ll be happy to sit you on my lap and shove food down your throat.”

I glare at him, then storm to the bathroom to wash my hands. By the time I get back, he’s already seated with a plate of what looks like ham frittata.

With a sigh, I settle opposite him and stab a fork in my salad that’s placed in front of me, while the frittata is for him. I hate that he knows what I eat and doesn’t act like other people who are constantly telling me, “Hey, some comfort food won’t hurt.” I didn’t get this far by allowing myself luxuries.

To be at the top, there’s always a dire price to pay. I don’t even smoke like many of the other ballerinas, so I have no way to kill my appetite except for sheer determination.

For a moment, we eat in silence. We both take our time. Me, because it makes me full faster. Adrian, because he seems like the type who savors his food, deliberately taking every bite. I try not to watch how his masculine fingers wrap around the fork and knife. He’s so sophisticated, like someone who’s upper class, not a mobster.

“Is the salad to your liking?” he asks.

I lift a shoulder. “It’s fine.”

“Would you like a glass of wine?”

“So I’ll get drunk like last time? No, thanks.”

His lips twitch in what resembles a smile but isn’t quite there. “Your drunk version is more honest.”

“Or more stupid.”

“I’ll go with honest.”

I lift my head, my fork playing between the tomatoes and lettuce. “You want honesty, Adrian?”

He places his utensils beside his plate and takes a sip of his water. “Sure, let’s hear it.”

“I think you’re sick and twisted. You’re the type who gets off on subduing someone weaker than you, closing all doors in their face so they’re forced to have dinner with you. Are you that lonely?”

Although I think my words will trigger anger, he merely taps his finger on the table twice. “If sick and twisted is what you like to label me, we’ll go with it. But you’re wrong. If there’s anyone who’s lonely between us, it’s you, Lia.”

“I’m not lonely.”

“We’ll have to agree to disagree.”

“What gave you the idea that I’m lonely?”

“Aside from your obvious lack of friends and your uneventful life, you also chose ballet when you knew full well it would make you hated when you climbed to the top. You didn’t fight the process of being envied and gossiped about. If anything, you used it to bury yourself deeper in your lonely bubble where no one can reach you.”

My lips part at his careful and horrifyingly precise analysis of my life. This man will swallow me under if I’m not careful.