Something in his tone makes me shiver. Not from fear, exactly, but recognition of something deeper and more complex than simple attraction. This man is dangerous in ways I don’t fully understand. “I need your inseam measurement.” I keep my voice purely professional now.
He nods, but as I kneel to position the tape measure, he speaks again.
“You handled Richardson well, by the way. I admired how you remained calm under pressure.”
“Thank you.” I focus on the numbers, not the warmth of his leg beneath the fabric.
“Most people break when pushed. You didn’t.”
I stand, recording the measurement. “Breaking isn’t an option in my line of work.”
“No?” He steps down from the platform, making him much taller than me again. “What happens when someone pushes harder?”
The question feels loaded with meaning beyond tailoring. Despite his proximity, and the way he stands over me, I don’t feel threatened. I meet his gaze directly, surprised by my own boldness. “They find out that some things don’t break easily.”
His smile is slow and rapacious. “Good. I prefer women who don’t crumble at the first sign of pressure.” He’s close enough that I can see the flecks of darker gray in his irises as his voice drops to something intimate and dangerous. “It makes it so much more interesting when they finally do.”
My mouth goes dry. There’s promise in those words, and threat, and something that makes my pulse race despite every instinct screaming that this man is horribly dangerous.
Before I can respond, Henri returns from his office with a satisfied flourish. “Everything is prepared,” he announces cheerfully. “Monsieur Taranov, I trust Willa has taken excellent care of you?”
Iskander’s gaze doesn’t leave my face. “Exceptionally well. She’s quite...thorough.”
Heat floods my cheeks at his tone. Henri, oblivious to the undercurrent, beams with pride. “Magnifique. The suit will take Willa at least two weeks, so when shall we schedule the fitting?”
“I’ll be in touch.” He finally breaks our stare to address Henri. “Miss Reynolds has my measurements. I trust she can create something memorable.”
He retrieves his coat with those same deliberate movements, pulling on the expensive wool like armor. When he turns back, his expression has returned to that cold control I first witnessed. “Henri, Miss Reynolds.” He inclines his head slightly. “Until next time.”
He’s gone before I can form a response, disappearing into the storm as suddenly as he appeared. The shop feels empty in his absence, like a stage after the lead actor has exited.
“Wonderful man,” says Henri, already moving to tidy the fitting area. “He’s a very successful businessman. You will enjoy working with him,petite.”
I gather my measuring tape and notes, annoyed that my hands are still trembling slightly, and not from fear. Or not exclusively from fear. He managed to stir a flicker of desire in me, which is unusual. I’m careful never to encourage or respond to a client, but everything about him feels different. “What kind of business?”
“Import and export. Very international.” Henri’s response is vague in the way that usually signals topics better left unexplored. “The important thing is he appreciates quality craftsmanship.”
I nod, though something tells me Iskander Taranov appreciates many things and probably takes whatever he wants. The thought should terrify me. Instead, it sends an unwelcome thrill of anticipation through my veins.
Outside, thunder rolls across Charleston harbor, and I wonder what kind of storm I’ve just invited into my little sunshine world.
