Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 118309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
I wish she were lying, but her bikini is as skimpy as mine. There’s nowhere to hide a grain of rice, much less a keycard.
That leaves me only one lifeline.
Aleena mimics Shevi’s defense by portraying a woman on the verge of arrest before saying, “Don’t look at me. I only asked if we could host part of the bachelorette party here. I didn’t demand unlimited access.”
“Oh poo.” Zoya doesn’t even attempt to act upset this time. “I guess that means we’ll have to go down to the foyer and ask for another key.”
Her smile grows when I mutter, “The foyer wouldn’t happen to be next to the bikini competition area, would it?”
“No.” I stare at her in shock. I should save my expressions. She doesn’t deserve them. “But the registration desk for the bikini competition is right next door.”
When she jabs the call button on the elevator, I fold my arms over my barely covered chest and firm my stance. “I’ll wait for you here.”
She enters the elevator behind Aleena and Shevi before spinning to face me. “Okay. But if my hand ends up down a billionaire’s pants, I won’t be held accountable for my actions.”
Aleena’s voice is so loud that I hear it twice when it echoes. “You put your hand down Maksim Ivanov’s pants?”
“No,” I deny, the solo word whipped from my mouth. “He put my hand down there.”
Aleena’s eyes pop before she turns into a mini version of her sister. “Get in. Now!”
She yanks me into the elevator by the strap of my micro bikini bottoms, cracking the elastic against my skin as ruefully as my heart strums my ribs.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Istop pretending my hands are a shawl to wordlessly ask the hotel receptionist where I’m meant to conceal my purse in my outfit—if you can call it an outfit.
“My purse is in my room with my room card. If it were with me, I’d give you my ID.”
“I’m sorry, Ms.—”
“It’s Doctor. Doctor Nikita Hoffman.”
I hate the person I am being, but I also hate the gawks I’ve been getting for the past ten minutes when I refused Zoya, Aleena, and Shevi’s begs for me to join them as a contestant at the bikini competition, so I had to leave the “competitors only” section of the hotel’s outdoor facilities.
Our ride in the elevator exposed that they are monitored, so now I am wondering if I’m being eyeballed because I’m wearing dental floss in the foyer of a five-star hotel or because rumors are already circulating about how I got a penthouse suite comped for next to nothing.
“If someone could grant me access to my room, I will gladly… show… them… my…” My words are spaced more and more when a man with a devastatingly handsome face enters my peripheral vision.
Maksim is approaching the guarded door Zoya, Aleena, and Shevi were ushered through seconds after I wished them good luck. He isn’t alone. A beautiful blonde is at his right. They look cozy, like they could possibly know each other intimately.
It has me worried that Zoya is right.
Perhaps he is married, and I just gave up the opportunity to find out.
“Is it too late to enter the bikini competition?” When the clerk’s lips tilt, I say, “I haven’t done nowhere near as much charity work this year.”
“I can check for you, Dr. Hoffman.”
“Please call me Nikita.” When her bewildered expression grows, I lower my chin and balance it above my chest. “And I guess a doctorate in medicine is charitable enough. It isn’t like I’m doing it for the money.” I laugh like my bank account isn’t down to its last dollar. “Not yet, anyway. Hopefully never.” Loathing the imbecile I am portraying, I hook my thumb to the bar. “I’ll wait over there for my friends. Hopefully one of their bikinis has a hidden pocket sewn into it somewhere.”
If researchers need more proof that sleep deprivation is the equivalent of being under the influence, they just got it.
I make it halfway to the bar before a dozen immoral stares have me twirling like a ballerina.
“The pool entrance?” I ask the clerk while pointing to the door Maksim walked through only moments ago.
“That is the entrance for the competitors,” the clerk advises, her tone apologetic. “If you wish to attend as a spectator, you’ll need to enter via the guest entrance.” Her following words are barely whispers. “And pay an entrance fee.” Her throat bobs before she says, “I can place it on your room tab.”
“Of a room I don’t have access to?”
She acts as if I never spoke. “It’s two thousand rubles and tax deductible. I will forward a receipt for your donation to your email.” She works so fast that the whoosh of an email being sent sounds from her computer a second before she signals for a man waiting in the roped-off section to move forward.