by Lana Sky
Low burn. I eye my drink and half-heartedly consider throwing it on him. Then I down it in one go and slam the empty glass onto the counter. Meeting his gaze directly, I fashion my most beautiful, charming smile. “Try me.”
He stands without hesitation and approaches the table he left vacated. He moves so assuredly that I can’t help feeling like a rabbit clumsily caught in a hunter’s snare. I’d been so busy chasing my own tail that I didn’t even see the trap coming.
“Change your mind?” Vadim calls without turning around.
I slink over to him, feigning disinterest with a bored sigh. To save face, I stall by circling around him before claiming the seat the brunette had occupied. My nostrils wrinkle, and I fight to stifle a frown. I can smell her perfume—cheap, knock-off designer.
“Ms. Connors, is it?” Vadim has a stack of papers placed before his spot. He leisurely rifles through them and looks up, eyeing me up and down. “I’m afraid your attire isn’t at all appropriate,” he scolds. “Did you even read the requirements?”
I squirm, unsure if he’s joking or mocking. Probably both. It’s so hard to tell with him. Biting my lip, I once again contemplate leaving—but the thought barely has time to form before I find myself leaning over the table instead. His quick glance downward reveals that my dirty trick hit its target—he definitely notices my cleavage, straining against the black silk of my dress. The effect is even more revealing if I arch my back in just the right angle.
So I do.
“I could go and change,” I murmur innocently, deploying my sexy drawl. “Though you should loveeeeee this dress. You bought it.”
“About that.” He shifts, suddenly serious. “Your total came to—” he rattles off a number so insanely enormous that I instantly suppress it from my memory. “Would you like to repay me in a lump sum or in installments?”
I wrinkle my nose. Stealing from him was never my intention. Needling him a little? Totally. Still, even if it makes my throat go dry, I can’t refuse him outright. “I do remember being promised a shopping spree in return for my accompanying you to ruin your brother’s party—”
“That was for one dress,” he clarifies, smoothing his finger along his collar. “Not four, a pair of shoes, a fur stole, a purse, two brooches and—”
“I’ll return them, then,” I say, dismissing him with a wave of my hand. “I kept the tags on. No harm, no foul.”
“You won’t.” He laughs at the absurdity of such a proposal. “You had the driver circle around for hours until you found the exact store you wanted. Judging from your eventual tardiness, you spent even more time combing through each collection, picking your favorites. You may not be punctual, but I can tell you don’t do things half-assed, either. To use that word, you so endeavor to abuse, you love those garments.”
My heart races, panicked. I feel so personally insulted. So…known. He read me like a book, so expertly, he didn’t even have to run his fingers through me to do it. No fair.
I try to salvage my pride with a toss of my hair and a bored sigh. “It’s not like I could take them on the plane with me, anyway.” Lies. I’d already run through the logistics hell of how to perfectly smuggle all four dresses, a purse, a pair of shoes, a fur stole, and two brooches into one of the customary wrapping boxes small enough to fit under my plane seat. Rather than admit defeat, I find ammunition to lob over the figurative net right back at him. “Most men would see the sex as more than enough payment.”
He doesn’t even flinch. “Yes. What was the rate I offered you? A grand for four hours.” He extends one of his hands before him and eyes each finger. Reaching some internal conclusion, he looks up, jabbing his gaze right into mine. “It would take years for you to pay off such an investment.”
Losing was never my forte. I suck at it, actually. Desperate to change the subject, I jab my finger at his stack of papers. “Ask me your stupid interview questions, then. I’m sure a man who can waste money on a fake wife can spare a few grand on some clothes.” A few hundred grand, to be exact.
For whatever reason, he doesn’t go in for the kill. Not yet, and my spine tingles with the painful reality that he has me by the balls this time.
“Do you have any relevant experience?” he wonders. Again, he utilizes that rich, unreadable tone that makes it hard to tell when he’s serious or not. Not, I decide.
“I have seven years of it,” I say, folding my hands onto the table. “All spent within an unhappy, loveless marriage. One could say I am an expert in the faking marital bliss arena.”
He shuffles his documents, his expression unreadable. “What is the extent of your education?”
High school—the fancy boarding school variety, but with grades not worth bragging about. I find myself composing a different answer. “I taught Sunday school for five years. I’d make the good, wholesome breed of wife.”
He raises an eyebrow, but I meet his skepticism shamelessly. I’m not lying. I’m not ashamed either. Teaching—even in the rather limited aspects of biblical commandments—is one of the few moments in my life with Jim I don’t regret.
“Have you ever considered children?”
I wince. “Next question.”
Something falls across his expression, hardening it. “No.” He sets his pages aside and braces his hands over the table. “I’m afraid that question is non-negotiable.”
I squirm. “And if I don’t?”
He shrugs. But I can tell what will happen just from his rigid demeanor. He’ll lose interest. Close up. Erect that stupid wall. Maybe I’m just too bored to let him retreat so soon?
“I wanted kids,” I croak, hating how hoarse my voice sounds. “Once. My body had other plans. Besides, I’m fine with being single, and children mean no more frivolous expenses anyway. It’s best for everyone.”
“Money is no expense where I am concerned.” In some ways, it resonates more like an insult than a simple statement. How dare I even question? His hypothetical wife would have the best of both worlds, of course. A billion icy, brooding children and the wardrobe fit for a queen.
I hate her already.
“What is it you even do anyway?” I demand, scouring him with a more critical focus. Barely in his thirties, he couldn’t have climbed too far up the corporate ladder. An heir of some kind? No. I grew up around boys with silver spoons stuck up their asses—though mine was shoved firmly in my mouth, so who am I to judge—but he doesn’t fit the template. He’s too cold in his dealings—a creature with nothing to prove to anyone. “A stockbroker?” I say, taking a guess out loud. “Venture capitalist?”
“To make it simple, let’s say that I dabble in pharmaceuticals,” he suggests. “A few strategic patents have made me a very, very wealthy man.”
“Like?” I prod, curious enough to risk irritating him.
But he shrugs, unperturbed. “Are you familiar with Eingel Industries?”
I’m not. Still, it sounds prestigious enough to assuage my skepticism. “Smart as well as loaded—” I nod in approval. “I’m sure your future trophy wife will be very pleased.”
“You have yet to ask me directly what it is I seek from my…wife.”
Haven’t I? I decide to cut the bullshit and take him up on the dare. “Why, oh, why would you want a wife, Vadim? Something tells me, it isn’t to fuck.”
“I seek a particular arrangement,” he says cryptically. “To achieve that, I need to go through government officials, and in that capacity, I must present a certain…image to make the right impression.”
“How did I know you wouldn’t tell me outright,” I mutter. “What do you want so badly that being a mere bachelor wouldn’t get you?”
He shuffles his papers and elegantly tucks them within a leather briefcase he had placed by his feet. “I would tell you,” he says without looking up, “had you actually passed your interview. I’m sorry to say that you failed.”
Heat sears my cheeks. Score: two Vadim, nil Tiffy. Time to cut my losses and scurry away to lick my wounds.
“I’m leaving.” I stand and turn my back to him, robbing him of the chance to inspect my reaction in full. “Enjoy your wife hunt. May you both find eternal bliss. I plan to find something internal.” I start for the doorway, forcing my chin high into the air. “Maybe I’ll run into Sam in the lobby? I have time to kill before my flight, after all.”
“His name was Joshua. And you can wave to him on your way upstairs,” Vadim replies. “Because you won’t have time to engage him in conversation.”
My steps falter. “And why is that?”
“Because you need to change into another one of your stolen dresses. I’ve decided to take you to dinner.”
My mind reels. He’s decided. It sounds so damn insulting that I puff up instantly incensed. And at the same time, it seems so damn intriguing. So damn…commanding. First spanking. Now, this. The man is insane.
But damn, I may love it.
“I don’t remember agreeing to anything of the sort?” I crane my neck to eye him from over my shoulder.
And I instantly regret it. Holy crap. His eyes blaze, a muscle in his throat jerking freely.
“You’ll come,” he says. That’s it. As if he’s so damn sure I wouldn’t dare refuse. It’s only when he finally deigns to eye his watch that I realize I’ve stood here all this time, gaping at him open-mouthed. “I’ll give you an hour to change,” he says as though bestowing some precious gift upon me. “Wear something I haven’t seen you in before. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
“You are so full of shit,” I blurt incredulously.
He merely inclines his head as if considering the phrase. “I’ve filled you as well,” he finally counters in that deep, relentless murmur. “But it wasn’t with shit, was it?”
My mouth falls open even wider, and I have to make a mental note to close it. Turning on my heel, I storm for the main lobby. Before decorum can rob me of the gall, I stick up my middle finger in a princess-style wave as I go. “Fuck off, Vadim.”
But damn him. The way he said filled. It does strange things to my head and conjures dangerous, explicit memories. Like him swelling inside me on the verge of release—and then the eventual sensation of being flooded by him. Consumed by him.
Chapter Eleven
I sway on my way into an elevator, and I nearly run into the suite in a desperate bid to escape thoughts of him. Dinner, he says? Hell no. I’m going to pack for my flight, order a million wake up calls, and do whatever it takes to ensure that I make it on time. I’m going to…
Scream and race out of the room as if electrocuted. My heart pounds as I warily tiptoe back inside, unwilling to believe my eyes.
My first coherent thought is that the bastard stalled me on purpose, knowing all along that someone was in my room unloading boxes upon boxes placed throughout the master suite. A stack lies before the bed and more dominate the glass dining table by the window. Not just any boxes either, but a classic, iconic black box wrapped in signature white ribbon…
Chanel. So much Chanel that I fear I’m hallucinating. Obscene amounts of Chanel. He must have spent a literal fortune. Either that or he’s playing a sick, awful joke at my expense.
So, of course, it’s the latter.
Sighing, I fight to control any excitement that may be bubbling beneath my skin as I approach the nearest stack and lift one of the boxes. It’s heavy enough to prove that it’s not filled with air, at least. But when I peek inside…
I sink to my knees and wind up cooing over the most beautiful purse I’ve ever seen. It matches the ebony dress I discover next. And a pair of similar shoes, and then a collection of delicate jewelry. Jackets. More shoes. More purses.
And then it clicks. The bastard bought the spring collection. The most iconic, eye-catching pieces, to boot. Gosh, just last month, I’d drooled over the lineup, trying to talk myself into flirting with bankruptcy just to buy a single purse. Maybe a pair of shoes?
In person, every piece is more beautiful than I could have ever imagined. All I can do is strip my black dress and try on a new, light pink one with worshiping reverence. In a daze, I discover a full-length mirror on the closet door, and I admire myself from every angle.
Then I try on another ensemble. And another. Another.
It quickly becomes apparent that he didn’t settle for just teasing me with a few new dresses. He bought entire outfits down to the last finishing detail. I recognize more than half from the runway, and something he said to me echoes in my brain as I model yet another gorgeous dress—wear something different, he commanded me in reference to his dinner.
The bastard.
I get lost in the task of trying to find which dress—of many—I’m aching to test drive first. The pink? The blue? An innocent sheer white?
I’m barely halfway through my options when the door to the suite opens, and a lanky, smug bastard strolls in.
“How did I know that this would be the cause of your delay?” He gestures to the mess of tissue paper and cardboard coating nearly every inch of the floor. His neutral expression doesn’t quite match the surliness conveyed by his tone. He’s not entirely angry, just amused.
And what he said finally registers in my brain. Delay?
Only now do I realize that it’s nearly pitch-black outside. I’d turned on a few lights to better illuminate the details of each garment, so I barely noticed. Concerning his dinner date, I’m about four hours too late.
I try to apologize, I think, but all I manage to muster is a pained groan as I model another black dress and promptly fall in love. Thinking quickly, I skip through the minefield of clothing and grab a checkered style boy bag from the chaos. When slung over my shoulder, it completes the outfit so perfectly I gasp, and my eyes roll back into my head.
“You truly feel this way about a few items of clothing?” Vadim wonders. He’s seated on the bed, watching me, his gaze unreadable.
“Clothing?” I sound so horrified by such a dismissive term. “This is art.” But even as my heart soars with affection for every beautiful piece, my inner bitch has to dampen my mood. “But I can’t keep it.” It nearly kills me to even suggest as much out loud. Kills.
“Is that so?” His eyes flicker dangerously as he blinks without an ounce of mercy. “I could return it…”
“You should.” I last all of five seconds before I break down shamelessly. “No, please! I have nothing to wear, thanks to you—” My suitcase is somewhere in an abandoned hotel room back in Cali. Considering that most of that clothing consists of conservative holdovers from my life with Jim, I’m more than ready for an upgrade. Biting my lip, I twirl and sigh in admiration of how amazing this dress alone makes me look. Even he has to appreciate the effect. And after all, I deserve a reward for putting up with him. He’s been so darn mean.
“What will you give me for it?” His low, husky tone makes me swallow hard.
Too terrified to look at him, I observe my reflection more intently than ever.
“I would offer you my body, but we both know that you aren’t particularly interested in that.” I should leave it there and salvage what little I have of my pride by throwing every last item in the trash. Reflexively, my fingers grasp the strap of the purse, but I can’t seem to budge. “What would you want?” I finally demand.
“I want you to accompany me to dinner,” he says.
“Is that it?” I frown at his tone. The audible hesitation doesn’t match the ominous way he uttered that word. Dinner. Curious, I crane my head back to peek at him.
He’s staring into space, his mouth more tense than the smirk I’m used to.
“Dinner,” he repeats. “With Milton…and my brother.”
“Oh.” I look away and finger the skirt of my dress. Even an idiot could catch the reluctance lurking beneath his level tone. “Well, I… Wait, that dinner isn’t until next week!”
“Monday, in fact,” he clarifies. “A timeframe that I’m sure gives you more than enough opportunities to utilize my bank account in your quest for revenge.”<
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I whirl on him, hands on my hips. “Pray tell, Vadim, you aren’t trying to keep me here yet another week?” I sound playfully alarmed, but inside I’m panicking. Could I survive another week in this man’s orbit? One look at his quick, devious smile, and I have my answer.
Hell no.
“You can keep the Chanel,” I say a bit more seriously this time. I carefully shimmy out of my dress, fold it, and return it to one of the boxes. “Now get out of my bed. I need to get up early tomorrow.”
I stroll toward him, vaguely aware of the fact that I’m butt naked—underwear, ironically, hasn’t been a priority during any of my few shopping sprees, and my only pairs are in said lost luggage. Circling around to the side of the bed opposite him, I make a show of yawning and lie on my side with my back to him.
“Goodnight—”
“And here I was assuming that the entire Chanel spring collection was the way to your heart.”
I scoff. “I would have to be an idiot to let you anywhere near my heart.” I’m startled by just how genuinely I mean that. Already something in my chest feels…off. I don’t care what it takes—tomorrow, I leave.
“Nothing might change your mind?” he wonders, still so deceptively neutral. A different woman might make the mistake of assuming he’s bored, even. Just prolonging this conversation to kill time. But I’m beginning to realize that time is the one commodity Mr. Vadim Gorgoshev doesn’t spend frivolously.
And that icky feeling in my chest grows tenfold.
“No,” I say smoothly. Then my brain catches up and has the nerve to contradict me. “Fine. What might change my mind? I want a straight answer from you for once. I want to know your secrets. And—” I wince as my stomach growls loudly enough for him to hear. “I’m hungry.”
When he doesn’t reply, I roll over and rise onto my knees, only to find him seated close to the phone, a glossy black brochure in hand. “Room service?” he inquires, switching to his deeper, more professional baritone. “Parlez-vous Français? Très bien.”
He presumably proceeds to order from the menu, only he’s speaking entirely in French. Given that up until now, everyone in this damn hotel has spoken nothing but unaccented English, I recognize the act for the power play it truly is. A display purely meant to disarm me.