“And I’m sure you carry quite the reputation in finance to commandeer a private booth in such an establishment,” he says over me.
I clam up as my cheeks catch fire. Smart man—too smart, it seems. “I…I…”
“Relax.” He cocks his head back and takes a small sip from his drink. “You’re the first woman under fifty to come in here alone—” He meets my gaze directly, and my heart lurches. “Pardon me for being curious.”
“Oh, yeah...” I flick my tongue along my lower lip, weighing the benefits of further engagement. He seems nice, but his lack of ogling my tits or trying to feel me up leaves me puzzled. Navigating the dating world beyond high school is a brand-new experience for me. Are we in good territory? Bad? Should I cut my losses and move on to an easier mark like the bald guy across the room?
Decisions. Decisions.
Jutting my chin, I decide on the spot to cut the bullshit and go for the balls. “Maybe I’m not a financier,” I confess, eyeing him through my lashes. “Maybe I’m interested in something a lot more fun than comparing business ventures. What do you say? I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
A part of me cringes inside—the good, God-fearing part of me that wishes I was wearing a nice sweater instead of a dress that exploits my cleavage to hell and back. After two years, it’s still hard to shake the old girl.
But as Mr. Gorgoshev’s eyes flicker from my face down to my collar, I suddenly can’t hear anything but the hard swallow contorting my throat. Good girl Tiffy can put a sock in it.
“Vadim,” he says. “First name.”
“Vadim,” I parrot, playing with the syllables. I probably sound more tipsy than sexy, but a thrill runs through me anyway. I swear his eyes narrow slightly. So I say it again.
“Are you alright?” he wonders, a black eyebrow raised.
“Huh?”
“Your voice. It sounds strange.” Frowning, he takes another sip of his whiskey while I pray I might sink through the floor and die. Just when the mortification becomes unbearable, he flashes one of those disarming grins. “If I didn’t know better… I’d think you were coming on to me, Ms. Connors.”
A teensy bit of my panic gives way to an excited flutter in my belly. “And if I am?”
He seems to mull it over, his dark eyes gleaming. “Then I would have to say…” With undeniable interest, his gaze flits over me a second time, and my heart lurches. “How much?”
Chapter Two
“M-Much?” I eye my glass of wine and feel my nose wrinkle. “To be honest, I haven’t really been paying attention to the number of glasses I’ve—” My brain realizes what he’s implying before my mouth does. The second I do, my teeth slam together as a horrible wave of mortification washes over me, so intense, so paralyzing that it brings with it a sensation of déjà vu.
Like the day I strolled past my beautiful white picket fence, in my old beautiful life, and walked up the porch of my beautiful house. And then I found my once beautiful husband sitting at the kitchen table beside his beautiful whore. The joke had been on me. After seven years of changing myself to please him, he’d decided to spring for a younger, newer model.
And together, they had presented their case for a divorce.
I told myself I’d never feel like that again. Not ever. Not even at the mercy of the mysterious figure I once considered fucking.
“I’ve offended you,” he says, the second I lurch from my stool. “Explain.”
Something in his tone forms a wall against the indignation prickling through my skin. It’s like the world just shifted, and even though I’m the one insulted, he’s managed to turn the tables.
“What makes you think I’m—” I glance at the bartender nearby and lower my voice, horrified. “A prostitute?”
His brows furrow, and once again, I feel like I’m the asshole. “You’re beautiful,” he points out in a tone that makes my brain sputter and anger go poof. “I’m not your type. I can tell by your body language—” He nods toward my legs, which were neatly crossed with my hands folded over them. “You’d be positioned toward me if I were. Therefore, a beautiful woman, in a lounge meant only for business professionals, confronting me directly even though she’s not sexually attracted to me…” He smirks, letting the obvious hang in the air.
As Uncle Conroy would say, “That’s check and mate, Tiffy. Know when to quit.”
“Check please,” I call to the bartender, fighting to keep my voice calm. “I’m sorry, I should go—”
“So soon?” I stiffen as, once again, his tone catches me off guard. Not insulted, I think. Just curious. “Whatever your price, I would have paid it,” he adds offhandedly. “I have time to kill before my next flight.”
I falter as two realizations clash in my brain. One, he really does think I’m a prostitute. Two, he’s boldly stated his interest in sex. With me. Now. Sex, complete with a graceful escape built-in by way of him being guaranteed to leave afterward.
My irritation dissipates instantly. I feel like a kid who had Christmas literally fall into her lap.
“You could name your price,” Vadim continues, sparing me another glance. He lingers this time, allowing a hint of appreciation to seep into his gaze where it lacked before. He’s not my type—he was right about that. But there is something about him that makes me do a double take, paying particular notice to his mouth. It’s just so damn pretty. His lips look soft too.
And my brain jumps straight into X-rated territory because restraint is a foreign concept to this new and improved Tiffy. He’s probably amazing at oral. Not that I’d know what oral—amazing or otherwise—from anyone feels like. But that’s the point of going on a sexual adventure, isn’t it? The thrill of discovery.
“I should have known better, I suppose.” Vadim sighs wistfully, his mouth quirked in another teasing smile. “A beautiful woman, approaching me in a lounge primarily inhabited by men older than this brand of scotch, at a particular time when I was considering finding myself a companion…” He stands and fishes a handful of crisp bills from the breast pocket of his suit, placing them onto the counter. “Of course, it was too good to be true.”
He steps past me, emitting a scent of booze and cologne that hits my nostrils like a punch. It’s so deliciously male. So…sexy.
Without thinking, I’m already following after him. “If I was a…” I can’t even say it. “What would you think my ‘price’ would be?”
“Honestly?” He looks me over, his frown thoughtful. “A grand for the four hours,” he says—but from his tone, I can tell that it’s not a boast. It’s an honest gosh darn guess.
“R-Really?”
“You’re confident which betrays a familiarity with high-class clients,” he deduces, stroking his chin as if interpreting me is a task requiring his full concentration. “I’m sure your agency keeps a list of your references, and judging from your outfit, you have the financial stability to be discerning.”