He shrugged, eyes fixed on the road. “As I said. I know many things.”
Silence stretched.
At a red light, he twisted around, arm draped across the seatback. I noticed a tiny crescent-shaped scar on his cheekbone—white beneath the dark stubble, nearly invisible unless you were searching for it.
“Your parents—James and Marianne—are retired and live outside Atlanta with a Great Dane named Carl,” he said calmly. “You’re thirty-five. You earned your MBA at Emory—top quartile, not the top. You are a marketing executive at Jennings Corp, in London on a six-week consulting contract with Hallstrom Group.”
The light turned green. A horn blared behind us. Luka muttered something in a language I didn’t understand as he turned back to the front and rolled forward.
“You divorced your husband, Jacob, two years ago. No kids—he wanted them, you didn’t. Still don’t.” His voice stayed even. “You take your coffee black. You swam competitively at university. You still swim laps at five every morning. Except Sundays.” A beat. “And today.”
My blood ran ice cold. “Stop the car.”
“No.”
“Stop the fucking car.” I wanted my voice to boom, but it came out splintered.
His foot sank heavier on the accelerator. The city smeared into glass and smog, the world warping at the edges as my pulse skittered sharp and metallic in my throat.
I stared, hands clenched, unsure whether I was more furious at him—or myself for letting him get this far under my skin. “You think this is a joke?” I snapped. “Some sick mind game?”
“You think I’d involve myself with you if I didn’t know who you were?” He said it as ifIwere being unreasonable. As if collecting the details of my life overnight were simply due diligence. “I don’t act without information.” Then, deliberately: “Alexandra Thompson.”
My name landed like a collar snapping closed.
Air stalled in my lungs. I forgot what I’d been about to say. Dawn washed the windshield in a thin, sickly gray.
He waited for the next move—mine or his, I wasn’t sure.
The car banked through a roundabout, smooth and controlled. Luka exhaled—not impatient. Disappointed.
“Relax,” he said, quieter now. “Your secrets are safe.” He said it like we’d reached the end of an argument, not the beginning. “I needed to know who you are,” he went on. “Everyone has a past. I don’t like surprises.” His eyes caught mine in the mirror, pinning me there. “If I can know this much in one night,” he said calmly, “imagine what I can do when I really dig. That’s not a threat. It’s a promise.” Another beat. “With me, you’ll never have to worry about anyone else getting close without my knowing first.”
“Paranoid much?”
He chuckled. “With good reason.”
“Which is?”
He didn’t answer. Which was the answer. Instead, he slung me a look that lingered too long. “You didn’t answer my question,” he said. “Did you obey me last night?”
The air tightened. I kept my face neutral, even as warmth crept up my throat. “You’re assuming I listened,” I said.
He laughed, a harsh scrape of sound. “So—did you?”
I turned toward the window, letting the motion outside stand in for a response. But I could feel his attention on me, tracking every breath, every shift. I held still, willing my pulse to behave.
“Naughty girl,” he murmured, voice low enough to feel more than hear. “Are you looking to be punished?”
I shouldn’t have smiled. But the smile came anyway, crooked and wicked. I sipped the coffee, found my voice, and let the bitterness steady me. “You told me not to touch myself.”
He waited.
“I didn’t.”
“I don’t believe you.”
I lifted my hand in the Girl Scout salute. “Not a finger.”