Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
“Do I look concerned?”
“I think you look like you might be about to make a dash for it.”
“Shows what you know,” I reply, stepping closer. My gaze lingers on her, sliding from her head to toes and every place in between. “You know me better than a man who hurries.”
“Yes.” Her gaze dips. “But that was before. The night we agreed was an act of fate.”
“We could call this the same. You and me in the same building again.” Without my permission, my arm lifts, my knuckles sliding down her cheek as my intentions fall between us like a line drawn with indelible ink.
“Except we agreed,” she answers softly. “Plus, I’m here to meet someone.”
“Well, there is that, I suppose.” My hand drops between us like a stone. I slide into my pocket against the desire to pull her to me.
“And he’s here.” Her gaze flits nervously over my shoulder, and she hazards a small wave.
“Is this one floppy?” I kind of groan. Fuck, I hope so.
“Stop that,” she warns, though she’s smiling. “Also, you’re really bad at social cues.”
“I am?” I shift my weight to my right leg. Sort of, huh.
“Yes, that was your cue to leave. Go!”
“Not a chance, Peanut. You just said yourself you have terrible taste in men.”
“Van,” she groans, pressing her hand to her head. “Well… behave yourself,” she mutters through a ventriloquist’s smile.
“I’m not even sure I know what that looks like.”
He’s tall, I see as I turn. At least as tall as me. Dark-haired and broad through the shoulders and moves like the world owes him an appreciative glance. Worst of all, there’s not a floppy hair in sight. Fuck.
“Van, this is Jack.”
“Hey.” The prick greets me with a jerk of his chin, though he does the right thing when I hold out my hand.
“Jack is a professional rugby player.” She says this as though this might recommend him somehow. Isla practically vibrates with nervousness as she adds, “Jack, this is Van. My brother’s best friend.”
Tightening my fingers over his, I give a shit-eating grin. Hello, Jack. I’m her brother’s best friend and the man who ruined her pussy for all other men.
He gets it. I even see the moment the penny drops. His dark eyes harden, his fingers tightening on mine.
“Babe, they won’t hold our table.” His gaze flicks over her head.
Ah, you’ll have to try harder than that, Jackie boy, to get rid of me. “Won’t they?” I give a pointed glance back at the latticed wall, once more becoming conscious of the eyes watching there.
“Van is terribly fancy,” Isla blusters. “He’s private dining all the way, but you’re right, we should take our table before they give it to someone else.”
“If that happens, you can always join me.” Or one of you can.
“Thanks, Van, but I don’t think—”
“I can recommend the robata grill.” I lean in quite suddenly, making Isla’s eyes widen the moment before I press my lips to her cheek.
“I’ll tell Sandy you said hello,” she squeaks as I pull back, though we both know that’s not why she said it. It’s a reminder to me. A move to pacify Jack. I know she won’t breathe a word of this to Alexander at all.
“It was lovely to see you again, Peanut.”
She narrows her eyes, but I’ve already turned because I don’t want to see her walk away. “Take care of her,” I warn with a nod at him. Or you might find yourself wearing a concrete overcoat.
Back at the table, my uncle and his cronies watch as I top up my sake cup.
“A friend?” The smile hovering on my uncle’s thick lips tells me he already knows.
“My friend’s sister. You’ve met Alexander, I think.”
“Alexander, Duke of Dalforth,” he says, pronouncing his name the Russian way. Aleksandr, the rest of his title all hard d’s. “A good friend to have. Important.”
I nod, even if I don’t agree. Not by his approximation. Alexander is a good friend to me, but there my expectation ends. Neither of us is interested in the kinds of things that would be useful to my uncle. Manipulation, political and otherwise.
“I did recall he had a sister,” he says with such a casual air I know what he’s thinking. Perhaps it was a mistake to give her the car. Or perhaps the mistake was leaving someone else to transfer the paperwork.
“Twin,” Sergei grunts from the end of the table, shoveling sashimi into his large head. Stupid fucker.
“Twin sister.” My uncle nods, holding a thoughtful finger to his lips. “And you’re acquainted with her, I seem to remember.” There is so much suggestion in his voice that the table breaks out in chuckles. They halt at my quelling glance. “You have nothing to say, Kolya?”
“Did you see my lips move?” Someone has been telling tales. Baboushka Sergei, no doubt.