Year of the Scorpio: Part One

by Stacy Gail

  The confession seemed to swell inside him until it filled all the darkened corners of his soul. It swelled another part of him as well, and just when he thought he was done, his cock told him they were headed for round two. “You’re going to have to convince me, beautiful. By tomorrow morning, the only name I want you to remember is mine, and I’m willing to do all that I can to make that happen.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  I was half an hour late getting into work, and I had to bite my lip to keep from grinning sheepishly when Shona sent me a long, appraising look.

  “Good thing I’ve got a key to the place,” she said by way of greeting, watching me shrug out of my jacket to stuff it and my purse into a lower desk drawer. “Otherwise I would’ve been ready to blast you nine ways to Sunday, walking in here at this time. You’d better have one hell of an excuse for coming in this late, and if you don’t, make one up.”

  “She’s got a good excuse,” Polo said as he appeared in the door, peeling off his sexy-cool aviator glasses and hanging them where the buttons of his slim-fit black shirt came together. “Me.”

  Shona’s brows shot up even as she straightened in her chair. “Well, if it isn’t the non-boyfriend sex machine. I’m Shona, since Miss Bad Manners over there never officially introduced us. Please tell me you lived it up last night and you’re bringing her in late because she’s hung over and can’t walk right.”

  “The not-walking-right part sounds fairly accurate.” Polo’s grin was devilish as I slid into the chair at my desk. “And I think I like the nickname sex machine.”

  “Polo!” Then I rolled my eyes, because the man didn’t lie. It had taken a while this morning for my hips to accept that walking was going to happen, and it was all his fault. Seriously, he had the stamina of a teenager, and I was definitely feeling it. “Shona, Polo. Polo, Shona. Polo was my father’s right-hand man, and he always finds a way to get the job done. And Polo, you should know that Shona is the same way, so handle each other with care.”

  Shona raised a perfect eyebrow Polo’s way. “Well, there goes my plan for challenging you to a knife fight in the alley out back. Want some coffee, hon?”

  “I’d love some, thanks.”

  I looked to him as Shona headed for the coffee pot. “Loading up on caffeine before you hit the road?”

  “I’m not hitting the road, beautiful. I’m here all day.”

  I blinked. “Why? Don’t you have anything better to do?”

  “With the opening of River Styx looming and a building inspection at Paradis Nouveau, hell yeah, I’ve got shit to do. But I’m here all day.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of that.” He nodded out the window toward the front parking lot.

  Confused, I got out of my seat to take a look while Shona joined us with steaming mugs of coffee. Together we stared at two white vans emblazoned with the Private Security International logo rolling up, along with a couple of dark sedans that looked heavy enough to be armored.

  “Holy crap,” I said faintly, before turning to Polo. “I had no idea this was going to happen today. How’d you know?”

  “There’s this little invention called the cell phone. You might’ve heard of it.” He bent to give me a quick kiss before heading for the glass door to open it wide, his amiable smile in place. “Welcome, welcome. Want a Twinkie?”

  “I’m sure that makes sense to you.” A massive mountain of muscle in the form of a man came through the door, clasped hands with Polo and did the all-guy semi-chest bump thing, a grin all over his handsome face. “Are you going to hang over my shoulder and bitch about everything I do today?”

  “I cleared my calendar just so I could do that very thing.”

  “Fuck my life.” It was muttered quietly, but still loud enough for me to hear. I chuckled, and that turned their attention our way.

  “Shona Rawlins, Dasha Vitaliev,” Polo said, gesturing to us in turn, “may I introduce a very good buddy of mine and sometimes-pain-in-my-ass, Rudy Panuzzi. Rudy, this is Shona and Dash, the dynamic duo that makes Chicago’s Future a reality.”

  “Ladies.” Rudy’s eyes, a lighter brown than Polo’s, skimmed over us, then flicked back to me for just a heartbeat before that easy grin returned. “It’s an honor to meet the people who are doing everything they can to make their corner of the world a better place. That’s why we’re happy to help out today. We’re going to do our best to make sure you’re in the safest possible environment, so you can keep on doing what needs to be done.”

  “We’re very grateful,” I said, still in shock they were there. Apparently Polo’s “amnesia” worked on more than just the men in my life. “Though honestly, I’m not sure we need a huge security system since we’re such a small operation.”

  “You’re in Bronzeville, you’re two beautiful women running the place on your own, I’m told there’s sometimes a baby here, and there’s a daycare going in next door. You have an open-door policy, which means anyone can walk in off the street to get whatever they need from your food bank. So far it’s been good, but what happens if someone gets it into their head that it isn’t food that they want?”

  “Then Konstantin or Polo takes care of them by making them into fish food,” Shona said with a snort, then shocked the crap out of me by reaching out and squeezing Rudy’s biceps. “But hey, if you come with the security package, feel free to stand guard over us. You look like you’ve got what it takes.”

  “Now, now,” Polo drawled, “Rudy’s new wife dusts him for prints when she’s not trying to make him fat, so it’s best not to handle the merchandise.”

  “I’d be pissed at the fat remark if it weren’t so frigging true.” Rudy ruefully patted his flat stomach, and the solid sound made me suspect that even his abs had abs. “Sass is working on her latest cookbook—The Unites States of Sass.”

  Polo laughed out loud. “Holy shit.”

  “Yeah, you gotta love it. She’s covering the special, regional cuisine for all fifty states, and right now she’s researching Louisiana. I’ve just about decided that if their food’s really that good, we need to move there.”

  “What’s she making tonight?”

  “I’ve already been warned that it’s shrimp night at the Panuzzi house—the menu starts off with something called po’ boy sandwiches with deep-fried shrimp and this pinkish, spicy sauce that’s so awesome I want to put it on everything, and whatever shrimp étouffée is. Oh, and something called a crunch cake, but I don’t think that has shrimp in it.”

  Polo smirked. “Does it actually crunch?”

  “I have no idea. In fact, I haven’t known what I’ve been eating all this past week, but I do know I’m going to have to add another mile to my daily run, and I’m already up to five. My wife is S.A. Stone, a dietician-turned-cookbook author,” he explained even as I was opening my mouth to ask who his wife was, and if she took dinner reservations. “She’s brilliant at what she does, but it comes at a cost. Specifically, my cost. I don’t think she’s made a dish yet that I haven’t sucked up like a human vacuum cleaner.”

  “Pardon me while I don’t cry for you.” I couldn’t help but laugh, shaking my head as workers from his security company began hauling boxes in through the front. “I can make toast, scrambled eggs and chocolate milk, and that’s it. I keep the pizza delivery dude in business.”

  Rudy’s brows went up. “You don’t like to cook?”

  “I don’t like setting my apartment on fire. So, I guess in my case that means I don’t like to cook.”

  “Dash has other talents.” Smiling, Polo pulled me close and pressed his lips to my temple. “Like kicking chairs through walls and shooting sesame seeds off of hamburger buns with her Glock.”

  Ugh. “Am I ever going to hear the end of that?”

  “Not in this lifetime.”

  Shona slow-blinked. “Since when do you kick chairs through walls?”

  “Okay, let’s set the record straight on that. It wasn’t all the way through, it just made a d
ent, and it’s kind of a long story.” I thought I saw Polo and Rudy exchange speaking glances before they shifted into those amiable smiles I hated so much. The way these two acted, I had to suspect this Rudy Panuzzi guy and Polo were in fact long lost brothers. “Just count your blessings that you’re with such a wonderful woman, Rudy.”

  “Trust me, I do.” The way he said it made me believe him, and I had to smile to myself as he got called away. I turned under Polo’s arm and gave him a squeeze.

  “I like your friend. He understands the value of a good woman.”

  “Sass calls him Rude. He calls her Sassy Pants. They fit. Kind of like us.”

  Amazing, how just a handful of words from him brightened my world. “You think we’re a good fit?”

  “Damn right I do.” The phone on my desk rang just as another muscle-bound guy came in through the front door carrying more equipment. He gave me another quick kiss and a squeeze before letting me go. “Catch your call while I see if these guys know what they’re doing.”

  Rudy and his team were going to love that, I thought wryly and grabbed for the phone as I sat back at my desk. “Chicago’s Future, this is Dasha.”

  “Dasha, this is Tiffany Stoddard-Fanning. My apologies for calling you at work, but I’m afraid I don’t have your private number. Have I caught you at a bad time?”

  It was a miracle my jaw didn’t hit the desk and crack in two. “Uh, no, not at all. What can I do for you, Tiffany?’

  “I’m calling to make sure you’ll be able to make it to the Spring Fling charity dinner. The venue has changed, just to let you know. It’s now being held at Castlemont Country Club, benefitting the Chicago Ballet and Dance Company. It’s this weekend, don’t forget.”

  I was so flabbergasted I didn’t even think about a verbal filter. “Wow, you must be really hard-up for dinner guests if you’re calling me. Have you forgotten you were virtually held prisoner at my place during a trumped-up raid?”

  “I haven’t forgotten anything,” came the stilted reply. “But that was hardly your fault, and what’s past is past, is my motto.”

  I’ll just bet, I almost said, and had to bite my lip to stop myself from blurting it out.

  “So,” she went on, “can I put you and a plus-one down for the Spring Fling? A plus-one will also be five-hundred, as this is for charity, of course.”

  “Of course.” Without conscious thought, my gaze found Polo across the room, huddled with Rudy and a ripped dude in a compression shirt and camo cargo pants. “Sure, why not? Like you said, it’s for charity.” Now all I had to do was talk Polo into diving headfirst into civilized, upper-crust warfare, with a side of ballet.

  I was so dead.

  “Nobody wears fucking tuxes.”

  “James Bond wears them all the time and he’s a total sex bomb.”

  “Yeah, let me reword that—nobody who’s real wears fucking tuxes. I feel ridiculous in this getup.”

  “You don’t look it.” I looped my arm through Polo’s as we headed up the well-lit walkway to the multi-columned verandah leading to Castlemont Country Club. The sprawling, single-story building’s front was a series of white-washed French doors, through which I could see a party in full swing, and from the outside it looked like it was a raging success. Hopped-up horny husband or not, I had to give Tiffany props. She was one gutsy broad who knew how to keep her head up. “You’re beyond a sex bomb in this getup. You’re a fantasy I didn’t even know I had walking beside me.”

  “You talk like that, I won’t be walking beside you for long.”

  “Oh? What’ll you be doing?”

  “Dragging you off behind some bushes and scaring all these tight-ass country clubbers right out of their Sperry boat shoes by making you scream.” The hand at my waist slid down to my ass for a slow, deliberate squeeze. My breath caught, and I leaned into his body while the ever-present lust heated at the juncture of my thighs. “Tell me again that I’m your fantasy, beautiful.”

  I looked up at him, and couldn’t help but shiver over how his gaze was already trained on me. God, I loved that. “You’re my fantasy, Polo. My perfect fantasy.”

  Though it was night and no doubt my imagination working overtime, I could have sworn his eyes got darker. “We’re here for one hour, Dash. Tops. This isn’t negotiable, and if you try to say otherwise, that time gets cut in half.”

  Dizzying excitement made my head spin. “I can’t tell. Do you want me to bitch about that, or not?”

  “What I want is to put you up against the nearest wall and fuck your brains out,” he muttered in my ear as he led me past the person checking guests in at the entrance. As we moved into the spacious salon filled with well-heeled members of society, his hand landed on my back left bare by the cut of my halter dress.

  I loved my dress—a slinky sheath of shimmering pale gold—but I had a feeling Polo loved it more. Much to my delight, his expression had been almost violently hungry when Konstantin handed me off to him in the parking lot of my apartment, and it had been quite a task to convince him to leave for Castlemont and not drag me back upstairs. The drive over hadn’t been much better, as he’d been virtually silent. When I’d finally gotten him to talk, worried that he was angry with me, he’d admitted that it had taken all of his concentration to not pull over into the breakdown lane, put on the hazard lights and see how quickly he could get my dress off.

  By the time we’d reached our destination, I was so hot for him I was vaguely disappointed he hadn’t succumbed to the lure of the breakdown lane.

  “You’re not going to hear a peep of protest from me, pal.” Social smile firmly in place, I nodded at an older couple as we passed them, hardly aware of what I was doing when my entire nervous system was locked onto that magic-making hand on my back. “The only reason we’re here is to support a woman who has a total dick for a husband.”

  His expression was borderline dangerous as he leaned his head closer to mine. “Why be supportive of some high-end bitch when you know she wouldn’t do shit for you?”

  “Because I’m not her.” My heart flipped over at having his face so close to mine, and it spun out of control when he dropped a fleeting kiss on my lips. “One hour. Or less.”

  “Or less.” His eyes heated, and the hunger in them made it almost impossible to not grab his ass and shock the crap out of the social elite. “With you looking so damn fuckable, I’m not making any promises.”

  Oh...wow.

  “Dasha, you made it.” The invasion of Tiffany’s unmistakable voice into the private world I shared with Polo nearly shattered me. I turned, hoping I didn’t look too murderous as our hostess reached for my hand and offered up an air kiss that made me inwardly eye-roll. “So good of you to come. You look marvelous—gold goes so well with your exotic coloring. Ukrainian, yes? That isn’t exactly Russian, is it?”

  Polo seemed to be on the verge of choking and offered an ironic half-bow. “Ladies, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and find us something to drink. Stay within sight of me,” he added, a reflexive admonition that made me grin, even as Tiffany looked bewildered.

  “That was Polo,” I offered while he headed for a banquet table set up at the far wall as a makeshift bar. “He once worked for my father and was my bodyguard at one point, so he’s still quite protective of me.”

  “Isn’t that nice.” A flicker of unease shot through Tiffany’s expression, and she glanced Polo’s way as if expecting to see him pull out a Tommy gun and mow everyone down Capone-style. “I sincerely doubt his particular skill set will be put to use tonight. The biggest threat this evening will be whether or not you get kicked by one of the dancers performing for us this evening.”

  “Sounds great.” Though, knowing Polo, he’d probably feel like he was being tortured with culture. But maybe there was something I could do about that... “I’ve never been to Castlemont before. Is the entire club open to us, or just this area?”

  “We have the salon, the main dining room and the main bar adjacent to that. The
Pro Shop is closed, of course, and the Cigar Lounge isn’t in use at the moment—renovations, I think—but if the bar runs low on anything out here, I’ve been assured we can use the stock they have in the Cigar Lounge as backup.” The hostess smile reappeared in all its glory as Polo returned with a flute of champagne in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. “Polo, Dasha tells me you used to be her bodyguard? That must have been an exciting job.”

  “I tried to keep it as unexciting as possible.”

  Tiffany’s eyes swept him up and down in a way that made me want to smack her. “You certainly look capable of taking on anyone. I wouldn’t want to mess with you.”

  It was my turn to nearly choke. “I assure you, Polo’s reputation is such that no one in their right mind would ever mess with him.”

  “Oh?” Tiffany’s penciled brows arched, a spectacular feat for her Botox death-mask to achieve. “Were you that legendary as a bodyguard?”

  Ever so slowly a corner of Polo’s mouth curled. The dark wickedness of it made my breath catch and that place between my legs throb. “Before I retired from the Vitaliev organization, bodyguard duties were only a portion of what I did.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, see, there were these totally unfounded rumors that I was some kind of...oh, I don’t know what you’d call it... hitman, or something like that. For some reason those rumors stuck, and I got a rep for that. Crazy, right?”

  “Crazy.” Tiffany’s eyes had bugged out at the word hitman, and they stayed that way while she maintained her socially correct smile. It was a remarkable combination to behold. “Ah. Well. The evening’s entertainment will begin shortly, and then we’ll all head into dinner. Hope you’ve brought your appetites—we have either a lovely vegetarian penne pasta dish or a to-die-for coq au vin for you to choose from.”

  “I guess stewed chicken sounds fancier when you say it in French,” Polo muttered, handing me the champagne flute while our hostess beat a hasty retreat. “What entertainment was she talking about?”

  “Doesn’t matter, since I’ve got my own form of entertainment for you in mind, you dangerous hitman, you.” Still chuckling under my breath, I laced my fingers through his, took a fortifying sip of champagne before I set it aside and headed out to the building’s entrance hall.