“I was joking, no?”
“Oh.”
“It’s okay. I am not often funny.”
The glint in the Russian man’s eyes made it hard to tell if he was still being humorous. A grin warmed Jonah’s face, but he kept it small. “I’m not known for my hilarity either. Is there a call button we can press?”
“There’s an alarm button, and a phone number. The alarm seems a little…”
“Unnecessary?”
“Yes. Unnecessary.”
“And there’s no one here to hear it. Samson won’t wake up unless a bomb goes off.”
“Samson?”
“The security officer,” Jonah supplied. “He’ll be asleep by now.”
“Diligent.”
“Oh, he is. But he’s sixty-nine and he just had a triple-heart bypass, so I give him some slack. I’d rather he was awake at midnight when there’s no one around.”
“You sound important.”
“Do I?”
The Russian man leaned close enough for Jonah to get another whiff of his natural scent. “Yes. Does the security officer work for you?”
“In a roundabout way. My family owns this building.”
“Ah, old money.”
Jonah laughed. “Something like that. I’m going to call that number. I don’t know about you, but I have somewhere I’m supposed to be.”
The man didn’t answer. He stepped back to give Jonah room and retreated to his own corner of the cramped elevator. He was carrying a laptop case and an overcoat. He set both down and leaned against the wall, the picture of smooth relaxation.
Jonah allowed himself another quick glance at him, saturating himself in his unshaven jaw and cut cheekbones, then forced himself to focus on the automated voice at the end of the line.
Five minutes later, a friendly woman in Oxfordshire told him help was at least thirty minutes away. “Apologies, Mr. Gray. Our team is already out on a job in Knightsbridge.”
“You have only one team?”
“Tonight, sir. Yes.”
“Oh well. I suppose we’ll survive.”
“Can I take the name of your companions, Mr. Gray?”
“Of course. There is only one. A Mr…?”
The Russian man held up a security lanyard Jonah had failed to notice hanging around his elegant neck. It was brand new and the grainy photograph didn’t begin to do his chiselled face justice. His name was Sacha.
Sacha Ivanov.
Jonah repeated the name into the phone. Sacha Ivanov smirked as Jonah tripped over his surname and turned his gold-flecked eyes to the ceiling.
Wincing, Jonah ended the call. “Sorry, did I say it wrong?”
“No. It’s just amusing to hear an English boy speak my name.”
“Boy?”
“Man. Whatever. Are we going to grow old in here together?”
Jonah licked his lips, a subconscious run of his tongue where he would prefer Sacha Ivanov’s. Wow. Where did that come from?
A dry spell of three months, probably. Jonah didn’t have time for romance, and heavy work hours, and then building anxiety about tonight, had put him off hooking up for a while. “We’re not going to die unless you expire within the next thirty minutes. Think you can survive that long?”
“That depends on your company, I suppose, Mr. Gray.”
“And that’s how a Russian boy says my name, eh?”
“You think I am a boy?”
Jonah shrugged. “Maybe not. But my name sounds far more interesting when you say it.”
“You are very interesting to me, Jonah. Can I call you that?”
“Might as well. We’re going to be here a while. Would you like me to call you Sacha? Or Mr. Ivanov?”
“Sacha is fine in these circumstances. Mr. Ivanov is for…other things.”
Jonah’s pulse quickened. The sensation that the Russian was toying with him was overwhelming. And thrilling, which was ridiculous, as it was far more likely that he was taking the royal piss rather than flirting. But still. Heat rose in Jonah and he couldn’t fight it. Sacha Ivanov was gorgeous. Literally, the stuff of his every fantasy. “Sacha it is, then.”
“Indeed.”
Sacha was still leaning against the wall. His expensive suit hung off him like sorcery, letting Jonah know a rocking body lurked beneath—long legs, a strong chest, perfect abs. Jonah wondered if the dark hair on his head dusted other places and had to look away, though he found nothing in particular to focus on. The lift interior was rather dull, unless he wanted another stare down with his own face.
He settled for folding himself into a seated position on the floor, thankful the elevator had been cleaned already that evening. He stretched his legs out in front of him and scowled at his shiny dress shoes. Though he wore suits to work every day, he paired them with boots, a formality mismatch that left him less vulnerable to wet British winters. Functionality versus Saville Row. It also made him less like the toff penguin some of his younger employees took him to be. He was twenty-six for God’s sake, not fifty, and his current footwear made him feel like his dad.
“You do not like your shoes?”
Jonah darted his gaze up to find Sacha had mirrored his pose to sit opposite him, his legs stretching out beside Jonah’s. He wore boots, scuffed and dark brown. Jonah wanted to unlace them and ghost his hands up Sacha’s legs, and—
Stop it. Jesus Christ, what’s the matter with you?
Nothing that anyone else wouldn’t likely feel when trapped in a confined space with someone as gorgeous as Sacha Ivanov, but Sacha’s gaze was so penetrating it seemed he might see Jonah’s every thought before he computed them himself, and that would be far more embarrassing than the shiny shoes on his feet. “I have a function tonight. I don’t usually wear get-up like this.”
“Get-up?”
“Clothing. Attire. These shoes aren’t my thing.”
“They are nice.”
“You think?”
“Yes, but if they are not…your thing, why wear them?”
“My parents are hosting a ball at the Dorchester. I am going to irritate them enough by attending alone, so it won’t do to draw attention to my sartorial choices too.”
“Ah, I see.” Sacha nodded as though it made perfect sense to him. Perhaps it did. His wristwatch and overcoat gave him away as a man who knew the finer things in life. “You could not get a date?”
Jonah snorted. “Oh, I could have. Just not one that I wanted.”
“No girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Boyfriend?”
Jonah shook his head. “Unfortunately no. My parents would’ve liked that, though. It bothers them that I don’t bring men home like I did girls when I was younger—” He cut himself off with a shake of his head. “Sorry. That was more revealing than I intended it to be.”
Sacha shrugged. “It makes sense to me.”
“It does? How so?”
“They probably think you have some internalised homophobia. You should not be shy about bringing your men home, Jonah Gray, if they are nice men, no?”
Jonah snorted, his mind tracking back to the last date he’d had, if you could call it that. The man had been well-dressed and rich, but closeted and engaged to a girl whose father played bridge with Jonah’s at the exclusive member’s club in Mayfair Jonah had spent his entire adult life avoiding. The man had fucked Jonah seven ways from Sunday, but with the prerequisite that Jonah never told a soul. “I don’t meet many nice men.”