by Lana Sky
“Sorry to break it to you, Vadim—” I roll over to face him and deliberately suck in a lungful of air. His brows furrow as if he’s reading my mind, and he starts forward, mounting the mattress in my wake. “You fuck REALLY GOOD!” I scream it at the top of my lungs, cackling as he grips my chin to silence me. I look up at him, enthralled by the planes of his face and those gorgeous freaking eyes. And his mouth, still wet from our kiss. I wonder if he’s one of those guys who hates tasting the results of sex. That could explain the hot and cold action to an extent. But no. Even as I watch, his tongue traces a dangerous path from one end of his mouth to the other.
And my toes curl helplessly.
“You should put your mouth on me,” I tell him, pleading. “Just once. To make up for hurting me. I’d love you then, forever and ever.”
“It only takes oral sex to buy your love?” he wonders mockingly.
“My love? No!” I push on his chest, thrilled when he lets me manipulate him onto his back and straddle him. Between my legs seems to be the one position where I feel like I have the advantage. He’s easier to read from this angle. “My love would cost a lot more than that. Like, the entire new Chanel spring collection in every color levels of dedication. But for now, to buy my maybe forgiveness, I’ll settle for you telling me why. Why did you go through all of that trouble for something so spiteful? It would have been way easier to just pick up a real hooker on your way there.”
“Why?” He shrugs and palms my hips with both hands, keeping me in place. “My brother brings out the worst in me,” he says.
As if that explains it. Though maybe it does. I know firsthand what it’s like to have someone bring out the parts of you better left buried. Jim is my case and point.
“What happened between the two of you?”
“It’s a story that isn’t worth retelling,” he says with one of those devious, secretive smiles.
“What about the other man? Milton?” I ask. “Who is he?”
His smile wavers. “A friend. More of a brother to me than Maxim in so many ways. Some could say we grew up together…”
He sounds so wistful. Honest. I marvel at the rare hint of vulnerability, and like a vulture, I can’t resist nibbling.
“Tell me more?”
His expression glazes over, and like magic, the wall comes back up. “There isn’t more.”
I frown and poke him in the center of his chest. “Where are my wines?” I wonder, glancing around the room.
“You drank one,” he reminds me. “I left the other…over here.” He shifts beneath me and reaches for a nearby end table, withdrawing my glass from the edge of it.
“Thank you very much,” I simper, holding out my hand for it.
“Should I do the responsible thing and pour it out, I wonder?”
I gasp in mock horror and lean down to steal a sip right from the rim. “It would be a sin to waste such a perfect vintage. But maybe I should slow down just a tad...”
He obediently sets the glass aside while I roll off of him and stare up at the ceiling. For whatever reason, he remains beside me.
“You know, if you kept me around, I could smooth things over between you and your brother in no time flat.” I snap my fingers for emphasis.
“I would hate to dampen your enthusiasm,” he remarks, “but I doubt even your skills could help much in this instance.”
He sounds so sure of that. Disappointed, even?
“Never doubt the skills of a basic bitch from California,” I tell him solemnly. “It’s a damn good thing we aren’t compatible. A mere week with me, and you’d wake up to find your bachelor pad now a pastel hell designed by Laura Ashley, and that you and your brother have a weekly golf game every Sunday.”
“A tempting future,” he murmurs. The weird part? I can’t tell if he’s being serious or not.
Rolling onto my side, I tap his jaw with the tip of my finger. “But you’ll never have it,” I tell him.
“Is that so?” His voice drips down to that amused, delicious murmur and something inside me quivers. Fearful? Excited? I can’t tell.
“You’ll have to buy my forgiveness first, and I don’t see any Chanel bags. Besides.” I scoot away from him and shimmy beneath the covers. “You’ll pull your mysterious billionaire act and disappear before the morning, which is just fine with me because I have a plane to catch. Try not to let the door hit ya on the way out,” I add with a forced yawn. “I’m a light sleeper.”
“And if I decide to stay in the room that my accounts are paying for?” he wonders tonelessly.
“You won’t.” True regret slips into my voice before I can help it. “That would require letting down your wall, dear Sir. Something you seem to have trouble doing around me.”
Even now, he’s playing along, saying the right things. But something tells me that’s all he’s doing—playing. The real Vadim hides behind an ironclad façade, and I only see glimpses when I taunt him enough into coming out.
Sure enough, I sense the mattress lighten, suddenly devoid of his weight.
“It would be a shame to waste this room since it’s already been paid in full for the entire week,” he muses.
I burrow deeper beneath the blankets and pout in secret. “Maybe you’ll find some escort to play with while I’m gone?”
“I may.”
I peek from beneath the blankets and watch him leave every bit as inconspicuously as he had arrived at the club. Dominating the entire room.
And then stealing the air with him, making the world feel chilled and suffocating in his absence.
Chapter Ten
I wake up too hungover to function. All I can do is moan in agony and stumble into the shower. Ritual healing performed, I can start to piece together the events of the previous night, all while trying not to die in utter mortified shame.
I had sex with Vadim again. Technically twice. Once in an alarmingly rough display, I’d pour over later, and then again when I finally got to fellate him for real.
And what an experience that was. I feel like a child who discovered that Santa, magic, and the Tooth fairy are all real—but surprise! You can only see them on a particular full moon, at midnight, only if you stand on one foot and squint in the right spot, and it’s already the morning after. The opportunity has sadly passed, never to return again.
Unfair.
The smart thing to do would be to get on the first plane back to California and put this whirlwind excursion behind me. Luckily, I have a flight leaving in…soon, I think. Frowning, I shimmy into a towel and run through the room, searching for the itinerary documents I had the concierge print out for me. I’m panting by the time I find them, and when I reconcile the time of my booked flight with the current time flashing on the LED alarm clock by the bed, I groan in despair.
“Damn it!”
A second later, the phone rings, and I lunge toward it, hoping beyond hope that it’s an airline representative offering to hold the plane just in time for me to race across town and board.
“Hello?”
“Morning,” a suave voice replies, and I bite down a groan. So sexy. So smug. My heart pangs as my belly clenches—two polar opposite reactions. “It seems you’ve decided to occupy the room another day after all.”
“W-Wrong,” I stammer while collapsing onto the end of the bed. “You’ve just caught me in the middle of packing. I’m on my way to the airport. My flight leaves soon.”
“Wrong,” he counters smoothly. “Your flight has been canceled. The next plane doesn’t leave until tomorrow morning. All of this, you would know if you were already at the airport for your eight am flight, or if you were awake for any one of the ten wake-up calls, the hotel receptionist attempted to place to inform you. I’m alerted by email when you don’t answer, you see. It appears that punctuality is not your forte, Ms. Connors.”
I sigh in defeat. There’s no arguing with that. “I can’t help wondering if you got me drunk on purpose, Mr. Gorgoshev. If you wanted to keep me here so
badly, you could have offered me the use of your private jet,” I point out. “I would have gladly graced you with my presence for at least another day.”
But now? I’d consider renting a car and driving cross country myself just to get out of his orbit.
“Where are you?” I ask him before he can reply. “Attending to more mysterious business meetings?”
“Something like that,” he says. “I’m in the process of interviewing women.”
My nose wrinkles. That’s a weird way to phrase it. “For a secretarial position?”
“No. To be my wife.”
I hang up automatically and back away from the phone as if burned. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. I never knew rejection could sting so badly, and I’ve survived a messy divorce fit for tabloid fodder. Gosh, it’s not even what he said that makes my stomach roil as if I’ll vomit. It’s how he said it. So mockingly. So matter of fact. I’m interviewing women to be my wife—which is a weird concept within itself—but hahaha, Tiffany. You may have fucked me and sucked me, but you aren’t even on my shortlist.
Not that I would want to be, because what kind of person interviews marriage candidates? Someone so jaded and mistrustful he has an invisible wall built up wherever he goes.
And now I’m forced to spend another night in the same damn city as him.
Chin up, Tiffy, my inner bitch snarls. Remember those promises you made to yourself? Put them to the test bitch! Start with your morning routine—let no one ever get you down.
Right. Blinking back any tears, I find the music channel on the television and turn up the volume. Today’s choice is vulgar, offensive feminine rap, and I loudly chant along to the lyrics while sifting through my past impulse purchases for something to wear. It is as I enthusiastically prattle along to the words, “Y’all men ain’t shit,” that I’m struck with a glorious revelation.
Fuck Vadim Gorgoshev—not literally but figuratively. He’s left me in a gorgeous hotel suite, with room service already included, and I have not one but three designer gowns to choose from, membership to a sex club, and time to kill.
Geoff may have been a false start, but no worries. I’ll find someone even better to fuck me senseless until my flight in the morning, Vadim and his new wife be damned.
Grinning, I settle on the black option he’d rejected as my party ensemble. Then I blow my hair out into loose waves and find the reddest lipstick from the handful I picked up the other day.
“You look gorgeous, Tiffy,” I tell the bombshell beaming at me in the mirror’s reflection. “Now go knock ’em dead.”
I stroll into the hotel bar as if I own the place. Screw private businessmen lounges or exclusive clubs. I’ll take whoever I can get. It’s being picky that got me into this mess in the first place.
With my shoulders back, head held high, I stroll into the sleek, modern setting feeling more confident than ever—and I almost run right back out.
This time of day, there are slim pickings as far as available men go—but one of the most eligible and hands down the most handsome of the prospects, sits at a table smack dab in the center of the room. I’ll have to walk past him to reach the bar at the back, but that’s not the worst part.
Seated across from him, as beautiful as if she stepped off of a runway, is a slender brunette with tousled curls, perfectly applied makeup, and a modest two-piece suit ensemble in a delicate shade of ivory. Paired with Vadim, they look like some sexy, uber-rich power couple, and my confidence plummets through the floor.
Damaged pride almost drives me away. Almost. But then I make my grin as wide as I can and approach Vadim’s table casually. Very casually.
Thinking on the spot, I wave at him, brimming with enthusiasm as those dark eyes narrow in suspicion. Skipping to his side, I lean over him from behind and place my hand on his shoulder. He stiffens instantly, even more so as I bring my mouth near his ear and murmur loud enough for his table companion to hear me.
“Baby, when you’re done with your meeting, I’ll be waiting for you at the bar. Kay?” My voice comes out the chirpiest, peppiest imitation of a Cali airhead, and I couldn’t be more pleased. Winking at the startled woman, I kiss Vadim right on his clenched cheek. “Don’t work too hard.”
Still grinning, I march to the bar where I promptly order my favorite vice and try not to die in utter shame. So the man who fucked my brains out—twice—is now interviewing marriage candidates right underneath my nose? I’m not jealous. Not in the slightest. After two sips of my wine, I’m not angry, either.
Especially when a hunky redhead in a dashing suit claims the stool next to me. “Is this seat taken?” he wonders, his blue eyes twinkling.
I clear my glass to the side and give him a more thorough once-over. “Not at all.” He isn’t bad for a last-minute option. He’s certainly muscular enough. Who cares if his eyes aren’t flashing with mystery, and his smile isn’t dazzling?
I’m over the brooding, aloof thing, anyway.
To prove it, I stick out my hand, my expression simpering. “I’m—”
“Not taken, I hope,” the man says, his gaze fixed beyond me.
“Huh?”
He chuckles, but there’s a nervous quality to the sound. “Please tell me that the man staring daggers at me isn’t your husband or something.”
Husband, he says?
I laugh loudly as I extend my hand again. In a voice clear enough to be heard from the main lobby, I declare, “Oh no, I am soooooooo single. My name’s Tiffy. What’s yours?”
He rattles off a boring answer like Ben or Sam. Then he proceeds to spend the next ten minutes regaling me with tidbits of the stock exchange market. At the same time, I muster every ounce of control I possess not to turn around. And I don’t. Even when an alarming warmth falls over my shoulder—the kind of pressure that could only belong to a masculine hand.
“Baby, I’m done with my meeting now, so you can stop provoking me. Kay?” a man purrs into my ear, his voice such a dead-on imitation of my Cali drawl that I do a doubletake. Dark eyes meet mine, sparkling with amusement—and something harder, promising punishment. “Tell the nice gent you’re sorry for wasting his time,” Vadim scolds, switching to his normal tone. Then he reaches into his pocket and withdraws a wad of cash that he offers to Ben, Sam—whoever—presumably as reimbursement for my second glass of wine.
Confused, the man takes the cash and backs off. “Sorry, man.”
Once poor Ben or Sam has escaped the bar intact, I whirl to face the figure already perching onto the vacated stool beside me.
“Provoking you?” I parrot innocently and sip from my drink. “Is that what it’s called when you’re minding your own business, enjoying your time alone?” I pout and flutter my eyelashes. “My bed is so very big. I’ll get lonely if I sleep in it by myself.”
He frowns, his gaze dimming, and something that could be regret diminishes my feeling of triumph. No fair. He had to go and make things serious.
“Your wife candidate is gone?” I wonder, my tone slightly less nasty. After scanning the room, I don’t find the woman anywhere. “Was she too brunette for your tastes? Too ‘unpredictable’?”
“Too jealous,” he says in a deadpan tone. “She demanded to know why I was interviewing her when I have such a beautiful girlfriend.” His frown lets me know that the words aren’t his. Knowing that doesn’t kill the fluttering butterflies that come to life in my stomach, though. “Had you not hung up on me, I would have further explained my motives,” he adds, deliberately dangling a carrot before my nose.
Am I curious enough to take the bait? No, I decide, taking another sip of my wine. But then I remember how beautiful he looked, paired with a taller, more exotic looking woman, and a muscle in my jaw twitches.
“What motives could possibly explain interviewing marriage candidates?” I fold my hands neatly over my lap and feign interest. Internally, I’m struck by his appearance more than usual. The planes of his face seem bolder, his eyes darker. Even his hair looks glossier. Frowning, I
try to pinpoint the source of the change, and then I find it—in addition to the ebony suit that I’m beginning to suspect is his signature look, a pop of color stands out in stark contrast. His shirt, a rich navy blue. I have a sudden flashback of me drunkenly informing him that blue is his color.
And it freaking is.
“Are you alright, Ms. Connors?” he wonders, his brows furrowing. At the same time, he strokes the edge of his collar, deliberately drawing my attention downward. “You seem distracted.”
Rolling my eyes, I attempt to regroup. “Don’t tell me the aloof bachelor is looking to settle down,” I snipe. “Newsflash, that typically involves having to touch someone more often than giving them a kiss-off.”
“In theory,” he smoothly replies. “Luckily for me and my ‘aloofness’ this has nothing to do with romance whatsoever. I’m merely seeking a business arrangement.”
“Oh?” I find myself inching closer to him while sneaking another sip from the rim of my glass. “A marriage of convenience?” I glance him over and nod with judgment. “You look like the type. You want your wife on call for public appearances with an agreement to freeze her eggs in case you desire an heir. No fucking required.”
I sound so disappointed. Poor Vadim’s future wife. He wouldn’t want to endure the many, many, many sessions of sex it might take to conceive a baby. Halfway through, he’d close up out of nowhere, erect his iron wall and leave her high and dry. She’d be better off with a turkey baster. It would certainly provide more stable emotional support.
“You seem very interested in what duties I might desire in my wife,” he points out.
I scoff and sip from my wine. Ignoring him would be the smart option—but I just can’t help myself. “With your dazzling lack of imagination, I’m sure I have a pretty good idea already.”
He chuckles, and I stiffen. Damn him, he can sound so carefree when he wants to. So…normal. So disarming.
“You have such a good idea of my intentions, and yet I doubt you would even make it through the interview process.”