My mom bought him an old Fiat Spider that didn’t run before we moved out of West River.
“Why don’t you get him something that works?” I’d asked her.
She’d shaken her head. “That’s part of the fun is figuring out what’s wrong and then bringing it to life with his own hands.”
When Uncle Andy died a few years ago, he’d left the Spider to me. It still runs like a dream. Even though I have several other luxury cars, the Spider will always be my favorite.
“What kinds of cars?” I ask Anna.
She shrugs. “You know, rich people cars. But he’s currently bidding on a limited-edition Aston Martin that’s at the Apex Auction House right now.” A slow grin spreads across her face. “The last one available.”
“You’re kidding,” I say, my ears perking up.
She grins again. “Not kidding.”
I’ve bought and sold my fair share of cars, and it just so happens that I’m friendly with the owner, Mysha Apex. Finally, things are starting to look up for me. Losev may not hand over the keys to the kingdom willingly, but I can show him what happens when he fucks with me.
And then I can teach him exactly how he should treat a powerful woman.
Chapter Four
Losev
I stare out the window of my father’s fifteenth-story office. The sun is rising beyond the towering downtown buildings, casting a yellow glow over everything. I feel like a lion cub surveying his future kingdom—everything the light touches is mine.
The only thing not mine—at least, not yet—is Evangeline Rutherford. The angel sent to Earth to torture the devil. I haven’t been able to get her off my mind since that night at the club.
“You need to fuck her out of your system,” Andrej had told me yesterday as we’d lounged by my rooftop pool. His recent fuck—a stick figure whose name I can’t even remember—had been sleeping in the lounge chair beside him, her wide-brimmed hat tipped down over her face.
I’d dismissed him as usual, but now, as my dick grows rigid at just the thought of Evangeline again, I wonder if he’s right.
“You seem distracted today.” My father clamps a heavy hand down on my shoulder, drawing my attention back to the matters at hand.
I clear my throat and turn away from the window.
“What is on your mind, my son?” he asks. He and my grandparents immigrated to the United States when he was just a child, but he still has a slight Russian accent that makes him enunciate each word just exactly.
As close as we are, I have no desire to tell him about Evangeline. Women in our world are ornamental, not fiery and outspoken. He would tell me to forget about her and find a nice Russian girl, but nice girls bore me. Evangeline lit something inside of me that wants to rise to the challenge of making her mine—of taming her, but not breaking her.
So instead, I say, “Nothing. I think I need some fresh air. I’ll bring back coffee.”
Mug Shot is a small coffee shop around the corner from our building. Every morning, I make a coffee run around eight o’clock. I don’t like sending any of my assistants; I enjoy the walk and the interaction with people who don’t bend and bow to me. The barista and the hipsters in line have no idea who I am, and I prefer it that way, if only for about the thirty minutes it takes for me to drink my venti Americano.
I’m sitting on the patio perusing the morning paper when my ears pick up a familiar sound. I lower the paper and look to the street as the sound grows louder—the gravelly roar of a familiar engine. When the sleek, black Aston Martin—my sleek, black Aston Martin—comes into view, I stand to watch it approach. My phone is already out to call the auction house when the car pulls up curbside and the door opens.
She emerges slowly, like she knows I’m watching. First a long, shapely leg, then a lean, tan arm. Her face, half-hidden by oversized sunglasses. And finally, her luscious body in a form-fitting red dress. Evangeline pauses to survey the customers—more like admirers at this point—and smiles when her eyes land on me. The staccato of her red-soled stilettos as she crosses the sidewalk seems to keep pace with my pounding heart. I don’t know if I’m angry or turned on…or both.
The wrought-iron chair scrapes against the stone patio as she pulls out the chair across from me and sits. “Losev.”
I sit too, my hand wrapped around my phone in a death grip. “Ms. Rutherford.”
“Do you like my new car?” Even though the sunglasses hide her eyes, I don’t need to see them to know she’s teasing me. She knows exactly what she’s doing.
“Very much,” I answer, trying to keep my voice even. “How did it end up in your possession?”
“I outbid you, of course.”
Is there anything more dangerous than a woman with unlimited money? I’m starting to think a nice girl might be what I need after all. “Are you here to gloat?” Then, just to get under her skin, I add, “Or perhaps you’re here to offer me something else?”
“Is it always that easy for you? Things just fall at your feet?”
I smirk at her. “Yes.”
Her lips purse together only briefly before she reaches across the table and pulls my drink over to her. She blows on it and then tips it up, taking a sip that leaves the rim of the cup stained with her pink lipstick. She considers the coffee, smacking her lips together, and then slides it back to me.
“Unfortunately, today is more about what you can do for me.”
I don’t bother to wipe away the lipstick before taking a drink.
“I would like to become a member of the club.”
The thought enters my mind unbidden: our first queen. But I banish it and instead say, “Membership is for men only.”
“That’s an archaic rule and you know it. It has to be illegal.”
“It’s a private company,” I answer, enjoying the sight of her facade cracking even if a tiny bit. “I can deny service to whomever I want.”
My father took over the club from a struggling entrepreneur fifty years ago, turning it and the building it’s in from a crumbling, seedy strip joint to the shining jewel that it is today. A place for the wealthiest men of Oakwood City to congregate, to broker deals, and to celebrate in private. Women have only ever been welcome in the club as distractions, never as members. My father would disown me if I were to change that now. Not even my Aston Martin is worth it.
Though Ms. Rutherford might be.
She takes off her sunglasses, giving me the first glimpse of her honey-colored eyes as she blinks her long, dark lashes at me. “You want to deny me?”
I definitely don’t, and my body knows it, my dick swelling in my pants as she bites her plump bottom lip. “I know you’re new to this life, but things are done a certain way. There’s no changing it.”
The way she scowls at me makes me want to take her around the corner and teach her a lesson in respect. “You’re a chauvinistic asshole.”
My smirk hides how much her opinion of me stings. “And you’re a beautiful plaything.”
Her mouth drops open and she stands, turning toward the car still parked illegally at the curb. But I’m tired of her walking away from me, so I step around the table and grab her arm, pulling her back. Her body is practically flush against mine, every curve melding to my muscular body in a way that makes it seem we were meant for each other. She jerks her arm once, and I release my hold on her, but she doesn’t move away.