Perspective (An Exposure Series Novella): Exposure Series Book Four by Annie Jocoby Read Free Book Online

living room and saw a tall, and extremely handsome, man.
    I could feel my eyes getting wide, and my hand was shaking as I watched him. He was well-dressed, with sandy blonde hair and green eyes. He was as tall as Asher. He just stood there in the living room, looking around. He picked up various items, such as vases and knick-knacks, and looked at them while I talked to the moving people.
    I finally got off the phone and I approached him. “Hello,” I said. “May I help you?” I probably shouldn’t have led with that. A better question would be what the hell are you doing here? But I decided that a little decorum was in order with this man.
    He nodded his head slightly. “Hello,” he said. “Are you CJ Parker?”
    “CJ Sloane,” I corrected him. It still felt weird, extremely weird, to say that my last name was “Sloane.” “May I help you?”
    “CJ Sloane. Forgive me. My mistake.”
    The two of us just stood there in the living room, looking at one another. He seemed to be examining me, almost. “I’m Viktor Kazakov,” he finally said to me.
    That’s when I almost understood why he was there in Asher’s apartment. “Oh. Hello.” I kept my distance, very nervous to make even a step closer to him. I was frightened, to be sure, because he was a strange man who just let himself in without even asking permission. I didn’t know what he wanted with me, but I had an idea.
    “Are you going to show some hospitality?” he asked me. “I could certainly use a stiff scotch.”
    I blinked and nervously asked him how he took his scotch.
    “Neat,” he said. “You know what that means, do you not?” I noticed that he didn’t have much of an accent, although there were certain words that sounded not quite American English. And his cadence was ever-so-slightly off.
    I nodded my head. “I think so,” I said, as I got out Asher’s martini shaker and put some ice into it with some scotch.
    He shook his head. “No, that is not neat.”
    “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “I guess I don’t really know what neat means.”
    “Pour the liquor straight, without ice,” he said. He didn’t seem to be perturbed, but, rather, seemed to be patient and genuinely helpful.
    “Sorry,” I said.
    “Do not be sorry. You apparently are not a bar keep.” At that, he smiled.
    I nodded my head and poured the scotch into a glass without ice.
    “That other scotch, that you put into that shaker. You must drink that. You cannot waste good scotch like that.”
    I poured that scotch into a glass and set it aside. “I can’t drink,” I said. “I’m pregnant.”
    He laughed. “Americans. My country was founded on vodka. Women drink it, pregnant or not pregnant. You would think that we would have a country of idiots, but we don’t. Some of the most glorious art, literature, music and dance has come out of my country, not to mention scientists. Do you think that Dostoyevsky’s mother was a teetotaler?”
    I had to admit that he had a point, and I tentatively took a sip of the scotch. It was smooth and warm and surprisingly delicious. I never thought that I would like whiskey, because it always made me gag, but this stuff was high-dollar and it tasted like it.
    I sat down on the chair. He was already on the couch, one of his long legs crossed over the other at the knee, his arms splayed out on the back of the couch. I watched his wordlessly, too nervous to speak. What did this man want with me? Was he there to kill me? Did Sophie send him over to rough me up?
    Then I thought very nervously that maybe he was there to hurt me. To make me lose my baby. That would be Sophie’s great revenge. I protectively put my hand over my abdomen. I didn’t drink anymore scotch after that sip, because I was still thinking that alcohol was going to hurt the baby, no matter what this dapper and elegant man said.
    He regarded me warily. “This is a very nice place,” he said. “Alexei has done very well for himself. But I am sure that you knew