His eyes widen—have I caught him off guard? Perhaps not. Already, a beautiful, mischievous expression erases anything else. He cocks his head and stands, offering his hand to me. “To a diversion,” he says. “But first things first…”
He pulls a cell phone from his pocket, and with a series of swipes, he brings up a screen that he tilts for my inspection. It takes me a second to interpret what I see—medical records, digitized for easy access. In crisp, clinical jargon, they proclaim him to have a clean bill of health.
“Oh!” I reach into my purse and withdraw a folded slip of my own dated, printed records, drawn up by my PCP just last week, along with a copy of my birth control injection administration. He looks them over and nods.
“Shall we?” Even as he smiles that charming grin, I sense a warning in his words—that of a firm boundary being drawn between us.
He’s offering up a diversion. Nothing more.
And nothing less.
Chapter Three
The rest of the Six turns out to be even fancier than the lounge—not that I manage to take in much of it, considering that I can barely walk in a straight line. My heels have absolutely no grip against the plush, lush carpeting of the upper floors. I flounder gracelessly. When I nearly careen into a potted plant, a stern figure captures my wrist, pulling me against his slender frame for support.
“Easy,” Vadim murmurs near my ear as I melt into him, relishing his body heat. “Are you alright?”
“Better than alright,” I slur with growing determination. The alcohol running through my veins just makes me more eager for whatever Mr. Pretty might have in store. With the added bonus that if I’m terrible, or if he’s terrible, or if everything is terrible, I probably won’t remember by the morning.
Win, gosh darn win.
“It’s here,” Vadim says, stopping before the only door lining this hallway. When we exited the elevator we turned down one of four halls. We’re on the topmost floor of the hotel. The level reserved only for the crème de la crème. Rooms more expensive than most people’s mortgages.
Rooms well beyond my modest target price range of “millionaire with thousands to blow on kink.”
“Are you trying to impress me?” I giggle, patting his chest. It’s surprisingly firm, and I fan my fingers over him in curiosity. Despite his slender shape, I suspect he’s solid muscle underneath. “Very funny. Where are you really staying?”
I’d already scoped out the hotel layout before infiltrating the lounge. So I know for a fact that the business and executive suites are between the tenth and thirtieth floors.
This floor sports just four suites, all exceedingly exclusive. Visiting princes and dignitaries’ level of exclusive.
“Here.” Vadim shoots me an odd look while reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket. He withdraws a silver key card and swipes it through the reader beside the sleek, modern door.
And it opens.
“My, oh my.” I cover my mouth with my hand as I stagger forward, too curious to pretend to be unimpressed by luxury—I’d read in an online guide that to snag a rich guy’s interest, pretending to be unfazed by his wealth is a must. Though Uncle Conroy seems to enjoy any pretty woman he can woo with a Rolex, so to each their own. “You must be quite the businessman to afford this. Don’t tell me I’m in the presence of a millionaire.”
I have the impression that Vadim intentionally stands back, allowing me to lead the way inside.
“Billionaire, perhaps,” he says with a charming laugh that obscures if he’s telling the truth or not. I hear the door close behind us, and his footsteps echo, advancing. “Please pardon the mess,” he murmurs near the nape of my neck.
It’s decided. He is officially sexy. Sexy in both appearance and in his mannerisms. The mess he’s referring to seems to be a single black leather briefcase left open in the entryway of what appears to be a branching suite, complete with a spiral staircase leading to an upper level.
“Holy beans,” I mutter, craning my neck back to take in the vaulted ceilings and modern architecture. “Do you always stay in the most expensive suite when you’re just ‘passing through’ town?”
He laughs again, and my skin tingles at the sound. Actually tingles. Either that, or I am beyond tipsy and inching into drunken mess territory. Whatever, I’ll worry about the consequences later.
“I have a standing reservation for convenience’s sake,” he says, as though it’s completely normal to book a hotel room for a few hours. Could he be lying to impress me? Most likely.
Do I care?
No.
“I bet the bed is huge,” I suspect, flicking my gaze toward the staircase. I slink over to it and palm the railing, feeling ten times braver than I had just minutes ago. I look over to find Vadim watching me, his dark eyes unreadable.
“Do you prefer missionary?” he inquires.
I turn away as my cheeks burn. Stop it, Tiffy. I’m no longer the repressed prude, but an unleashed sex kitten. For good measure, I pinch myself on the wrist.
“You know what, I’ve been dying to try something new,” I purr, whirling around to face him. “I’m sure you have tons of experience to draw from.”
That makes him smile one of those secretive grins. “I may…”
“Like?” I shed my coat as I wait for his response. It’s warm in here. Too warm. Sweat is already misting over my skin, and the faux fur clings to my fingers as I set it aside.
Vadim is still standing, watching me.
“I’ll let you set the pace,” he says dismissively. I frown only to lose my train of thought as he runs a finger along his collar, loosening it. He’s even pretty underneath the tailored fabric—his chest gleams like marble, hairless—but there’s a flaw so glaring I sway at the sight. A jagged scar claims the left side of his throat, clawing down to his shoulder. With his collar done up, I’d missed it before.
“What happened?” I blurt out.
His eyes flicker, suddenly icy. “A minor accident.” A deliberate note in his voice conveys a chilling bit of doublespeak—so don’t concern yourself.
Fair enough.
Shaking my head, I refocus on the rest of him and try to recall his first directive. Set the pace.
Okay. Meeting his gaze, I attempt to advance toward him, slow and steadily like I’ve seen women do in pornos. But those women weren’t drunk, most of them weren’t wearing stilettos, and their costars weren’t fully clothed, observing their every single move.
I stagger, and he practically teleports to my side, just in time to grab my arm, righting my balance before I can fall.
“I’m beginning to wonder if I might be taking advantage of you, Ms. Connors,” he says, sounding annoyingly serious.
I giggle—one of those stupid, tattered drunk-girl giggles. Oh, dear, it’s happened again. Well, it’s too late to back down now.
“I’m fine,” I insist. “In fact…”
Grab the world by the balls, Uncle Conroy would say.
So I drop to my knees and fumble for the fly of his slacks. The first thing I notice is how luxurious the fabric feels—very expensive. My second realization is how he stiffens. His body tenses beneath me, and I jump back as if burned.