“The only way you’ll ever set foot in my club again is if you’re on my arm.” I whisper in her ear. Her hair is pulled back in a long, tight ponytail that reveals the slender curve of her neck. I want to sink my teeth into it.
Her jaw twitches as she clenches her teeth. “Rot in hell, Losev. That’s where you came from, after all, if rumors are to be believed.”
I laugh. “How do you even know you want in if you haven’t experienced it for yourself? Every. Level.”
Her breath hitches, giving away that she understands my implication. Most women would trip over themselves at the chance to go to the club with me. But Evangeline isn’t most women. I consider it a success that she doesn’t simply turn and leave. Instead, she seems to seriously be considering my proposal, which makes me nervous. She won’t agree unless she has some plan.
“Fine,” she says. “I’ll meet you there at eight o’clock tonight.”
I can’t help but smile. “Fine,” I agree. “I’m looking forward to it.”
As she gets in the Aston Martin and pulls away, revving the engine just to rub salt in the wound, I do my best to shake off the feeling of trepidation creeping up inside of me. It’s silly, really. I am Losev Turgenev, after all—the master of this game.
Evangeline Rutherford is just a novice. And I am glad to be her tutor.
Chapter Five
Evangeline
Even when I’m ready and in the back of the Town Car on the way to the Club, I’m still not completely sure why I’m going. Our interaction today only reinforced that he’s a sexist jerk, but there’s a part of me that believes a lot of it is a front. Like he’s just living up to expectations in the only world he’s ever known.
But I have to keep my head on straight. The idea will be to get into the club as his guest and piece a plan together. Figure out his weaknesses. Get under his skin. So that later I can grab him by the balls—figuratively, of course. And maybe literally, too.
Losev greets me in front of the Oakwood Club looking sexy as sin. He’s wearing a white dress shirt tucked into fitted black slacks that show off the Salvatore Ferragamo belt wrapped around his lean, muscular waist.
“No suit jacket?” I tease, if only to ease the tension between us. I guess it’s my fault, really—I’m the one staring at his…belt.
He looks behind me to where my driver is pulling away in a black Town Car. “No Aston Martin?”
“I like to save it for special occasions.”
He unhooks the red velvet rope and I squeeze past the bouncer and into the dark foyer. I can feel Losev’s eyes on me as real as a physical touch. I went with a white pencil dress with an open back tonight, something a little sexier as I get used to fighting fire with fire. I won’t hide behind masculine clothes and hope that he sees me as something other than what I am. Losev already knows I’m a woman. Now I just have to teach him what that means.
We start at the rooftop bar, which is classy but completely normal. Couples and friends lounge around with colorful drinks in their hands, posing at the ledge for a picture with the city lights in the background. I order a cosmopolitan and sit on a couch beside Losev while he tells me about how his father bought this building. The way he talks about it, I can tell he’s proud, not just of the club, but of his father. Proud to carry the name and continue the legacy. I’m surprised to find that we have something in common—that respect for our parents, and the motivation to succeed that comes from it.
Maybe that’s why he’s so set on following the rules. Because they were established by his father.
When we finish our drinks, he takes me by the hand to the elevator. We ride down a few levels, and I can feel the thumping base before the elevator doors even open, depositing us just inside a dance club. The music is loud and the smoky air turns colors with a strobe light—red, green, blue. People dance close together, grinding to the music.
At the bar, Losev orders me another drink, this time the same bourbon I’d ordered in the lounge. I’m surprised he remembers. It’s too loud to really talk, so we just watch the couples for a few minutes. When my drink is finished, he leans in close and holds a hand out to me.
“Dance?” he asks, his breath hot on my ear.
“No.” I shake my head. “I don’t dance.”
He grunts and signals the bartender for another drink. “That’s because you haven’t found the right person to lead.”
I take my new drink from the bartender and say, “I suppose you think that could be you?”
He turns and leans back against the bar—the devil surveying his domain. “A good lead treats his partner with respect. He’s clear, alert, adaptable.” Losev sets his drink down and turns. Even in my high heels, he towers over me. “In exchange, his partner trusts him. That’s where you would suffer.”
It’s hot in here, especially this close to him, and sweat glides between my breasts. I look up at him and force a small laugh. “You talk about respect as if you’ve done anything more than objectify and ridicule me since the moment I walked into your club.” I toss back the rest of my drink and smack the glass down on the bar. “A good dance partner doesn’t just blindly trust someone who doesn’t deserve it.”
Turning my back to him, I strut toward the elevator and jab the up button. Losev infuriates me, but he also unnerves me. He’s the only man to ever do so. The elevator doors open and a group of giggling girls shepherded by a couple of men who look like the Wal-Mart version of Losev pour out into the club. I’m about to step on when a hand wraps around my upper arm and pulls me back. Then Losev leans around me and pushes the down button. Before I can react, the elevator doors going up to the lobby and back to the real world close.
“What are you doing?” I ask. “I’m ready to leave.”
“You haven’t finished the tour,” he says coolly. If I expected him to apologize, I’m sorely disappointed.
“I don’t need to see anything else.” I hate that I’ve let him get to me. But when the elevator comes, I step on with him anyway, and we descend deeper into the club.
We sit in briefly on a burlesque show, and then go lower still to a strip club. We find a table by the stage where I settle in to watch a woman exhibit extraordinary muscle control on a shining silver pole. Losev brings me my fourth drink of the night, and we sit in silence, enjoying the show. When the woman shimmies close to the edge of the stage, I lean forward and tuck a twenty in her G-string.
Losev chuckles.
“What?” I ask.
“You don’t seem the type to enjoy a strip show. Don’t you think it, I don’t know, objectifies women?”
“I’m learning that a woman’s sexuality can be empowering when she wants it to be. And this is consensual. There’s nothing wrong with supporting her.”
Before Losev can respond with what I’m sure is some snide remark, someone appears at the head of our table as if out of nowhere. I can’t imagine how it’s possible—the man is built like a mountain. I startle when I catch sight of him, but Losev turns as if he knew he was there all along. Maybe he did.
“He requests your presence,” the man says in a low rumble, offering no explanation as to who “he” is.