Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 90540 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90540 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
“You must’ve considered a Peggy Sue by this point.” A wedding con. “I’m sure we all did after that call.”
The thought had tickled at the back of my mind, but I’d mentally scratched it away. “Dmitri’s way too clever. He’d lawyer up with a prenup so ironclad it’d clang when it hit a desk. Plus he’s got those two bodyguards.”
“Hate bodyguards. Still, it’s Vegas, baby. Make him crazy for an hour, and you could seal the deal.”
“Crazy, huh?” He’s got that covered all on his own.
“I could run a badger on him.” That multi-purpose con could be used for more than just blackmail. “I’d mick him, and you’d find us ‘together.’ You’d scream and cry, telling him there’s only one way you could ever trust him again: the bonds of holy matrimony. Give him the ultimatum, and he’d be toast.”
I could cry on cue, but the idea of Karin even “fake” getting together with him made my fingers clench the steering wheel. “I’ll stick with the milk-cow.”
“Then wear the man-eater.”
I’d cut that sleeveless gown from scarlet body-hugging silk. The overall look was simple yet sultry. Illusion straps and a plunging neckline bared plenty of skin in the front, while the back cutout dipped almost to my ass. The hourglass silhouette gave way to a thigh-high slit.
When a woman wore a dress like that, it told men: I’m getting laid tonight. And when I do, some lucky bastard’s balls will scream for mercy. “You don’t think it’s too soon?”
“No, but he’s going to be all over you.”
At the idea, my body purred like the Porsche’s engine.
Whatever she saw in my expression made her lips thin. “You cannot sleep with him, Vice.”
“Listen to me.” I met her gaze as we made the Strip. “There’s no way in hell I’m going to sleep with the Russian.”
CHAPTER 14
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Okay, I might sleep with the Russian.
When I opened the door for him, lyrics from the incomparable Madonna sprang into my thoughts:
I’m in trouble deep.
He was just so . . . so unimaginably beautiful. His tailored dark gray suit emphasized his height, the wide set of his shoulders, the narrowness of his hips. His understated tie had a thread of amber through it, highlighting his eyes. My fingers itched to touch his clean-shaven jaw and chin.
He stared at me as if he’d forgotten how to blink. I guessed he liked the man-eater.
Pete had already called to tell me when Dmitri left the casino and what my date was wearing (my cuz had warned me Dmitri looked “excruciatingly hot”). Thanks to intel from Giovanni, the concierge, I also knew our destination: Murano’s, a romantic—and extravagant—Italian restaurant.
“Am I dressed appropriately?” I asked as I turned in a circle. “You didn’t say where you were taking me.”
Dmitri’s gaze drifted down, then slowly ascended, as if he were committing every inch of me to memory. His answer was a curt nod.
Not a word about my appearance? I’d painstakingly braided my hair into three plaits, then pinned them into a crown atop my head. My makeup was expertly applied—kohled eyes, curled lashes, glossy lips, vamp nails. My only jewelry was a pair of onyx earrings. I carried a matching clutch for my keys, phone, and gloss.
When I’d donned the man-eater and the clinging material had glided over me, my nipples had stiffened; the dress had done nothing to disguise them. Now his inspection was making them peak again. By the time his gaze reached my face, my cheeks were on fire. I waved in his direction. “Uh, you look great.”
Another nod.
Wow, cocky much?
“Come.” He placed his big palm on the bared small of my back. His nostrils flared and his fingertips dug in a little as he led me toward his limo.
I got a hit of Dmitri’s aftershave and caught my customary buzz, my lids growing heavy.
When we passed my new car, I said, “Thank you for the gift.” Al already had a buyer interested.
Dmitri scarcely acknowledged it. “I have another one for you.”
Oh, do you?
One of his bodyguards, the brown-haired one, opened the door for us. A blond was behind the wheel. I dubbed them Starsky and Hutch (not quite eighties, but close enough). Starsky shut the door behind us and got in with Hutch up front. With a low hum, the privacy divider closed.
Dmitri didn’t sit close to me. Weird. As we started off, he didn’t reach for me and drag me into his lap.
I’d thought my bared thigh would merit a glance, but he seemed determined not to look down. Puzzled, I fidgeted with my clutch and stared out the window. . . .
I frowned when we passed a white Yukon like the one Brett drove. I only got a glimpse of the driver but suspected it was my ex. No matter how many times I’d told him our relationship was over, he continued to cruise my neighborhood. How could I get him to stop with the e-mails and drive-bys and move on?
I didn’t need to be thinking about Brett; I needed to be working. I sank back in the seat, watching Sevastyan out of the corner of my eye.
His shoulders were rigid. When he subtly blew out a breath, as if trying to get a handle on himself, I relaxed a fraction. Had I thrown him for a loop?
With more confidence, I asked, “So what do your bodyguards do when you’re on dates?”
“Dates? I have no idea what they do when I’m not around.”
“Any particular reason you travel with a pair of them?”
He shrugged. “They buffer me from irritations.”
“With their holstered weapons?” I’d spied a flash of one.
No denial. “Better safe than sorry.”
“An enigmatic answer from an enigmatic guy.” I turned to face him more fully. “Before we get to the restaurant, I want to talk about last night. I had a chat with my sister, and it helped me realize some things.”
“Like what?”
Two tears in a bucket . . . “Apparently, I have a . . . fetish. This is going to be hard to believe, but I didn’t know I’m not, um, vanilla. I got spooked by the intensity and the situation, and I overreacted, blaming everything on you.”