by Kimber Lee
I laughed again. “You’re biased and I need to shower. Hanging up now, Renée.”
“I’m not finished yet!” she protested, like she always did.
“Give Lorenzo a French kiss for me. Make it wet,” I told her, like I always did, and cut the call. I loved Renée Marino to death, but she could talk the hind legs off a donkey.
As soon as I put my phone down, it pinged to notify me that I had an e-mail. I thought about ignoring it—for about a second. Sighing, I clicked it open.
Great! I thought morosely, quickly scanning through a message from a woman named Cassie Winer. Don’t I get to relax?
Cassie was positive that her husband was screwing around on her with prostitutes. Ick! She wanted me to follow him to Las Vegas, where he had a casino opening that weekend, and report back to her immediately.
Money first, I sent back. Then you give me all his details. – R
Anyone who e-mailed me knew to wire my money into my offshore account. I had only given out the account details once before. Word of mouth ensured that I never had to give it out again.
I put my phone on silent, set it on my glass coffee table and went upstairs to take a long, steaming, and well-deserved bath. It felt good to be home—well, at one of my homes—and in a place I considered safe.
Out of all the rooms in this particular house, my favorite was the bathroom, simply because of the ivory claw-foot bathtub. It was spacious and old-fashioned, and I could spend hours lounging in it. I had more modern tubs in my homes in France, Italy, Greece and the States. But this one? This one was old-fashioned perfection.
I was still pretty shaken up by the incubus and wondered if I should call my dad’s old friend, Teddy Bunting, who had been a hunter just like him. But I shook the crazy thought out of my head as I reached for my loofah. If I phoned him and let him in, I’d be letting them all in. I didn’t want that. I was cool with following unfaithful husbands—and, on rare occasions, wives—around and getting paid handsomely for it. I, however, didn’t want to end up as crazy as my father had been during his final years, hopped up on some fanatical quest to destroy the demon that had stolen the love of his life.
After my bath, I put on my silk robe and, glancing at the bedside clock that informed me it was almost six p.m., decided that I deserved an early night—sans dinner. So I went to draw the curtains… and froze.
Daniel Lawless was giving me my very own striptease.
His bedroom window was right across mine, separated by a measly picket fence, so I had a front-row view to a very private show. I didn’t have anything to be ashamed of because, quite frankly, he was asking to be looked at, leaving his windows wide open like that.
His pea green T-shirt went over his head, ruffling his dark brown hair and making it stick out at odd angles. Then it went to the floor and I got a good look at his well-defined back. From what little I knew, Daniel worked in construction, hence the great physique. And now, I was getting turned on by his back. Was I pathetic or what?
My inner voice was about to answer with an affirmative, when a tall, lithe butt-naked blonde launched herself into Daniel’s waiting arms and drew him into a very passionate, very sexy kiss. Mortified, I quickly drew my curtains. Like a voyeur, I just watched him undress for another woman and almost gotten off on it.
Yeah, pretty pathetic, Rainelle Erickson. But what’s new? Yes, my inner voice was very vocal, all of a sudden.
Scowling, I went downstairs and checked my phone. Cassie Winer had sent me everything she knew about her husband, coupled with plenty of photos (he was a handsome, redheaded forty-something), and proof of payment. I pulled my laptop out and got online to book a ticket to Vegas for that weekend.
Today, Paris. This weekend, Vegas.
Maybe I’d get laid.
After all, my inner voice said conspiratorially, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.
Chapter 2
You can do this, Rae. You can do this.
I took a deep breath, steeling myself when Tad—I think that’s his name—ran a hand down the side of my hip suggestively, his focus still on the roulette table. Being on his lap meant that I had the misfortune of feeling Little Tad hard and desperate beneath me. No matter how much I tried to inconspicuously shift away, Big Tad made sure Little Tad was always in contact and, to my horror, shifting around only made Little Tad happier.
Damn! I thought, my eyes casually flicking to Darryl Winer’s table. Talk about a rock and a hard place.
As soon as I got to Vegas late that afternoon and had time to think, I decided that being alone in a casino would only draw attention to myself. Looking around, I noticed that almost every woman—many of whom were donning the unofficial uniform of skintight, thigh-length dresses—was attached to at least one man. So I had to follow suit, and latched onto a guy and wore a skintight, thigh-length dress—despite the cool Nevada evening. I’d tamed my mass of inky curls into a chignon, which accentuated my cheekbones, and squeezed myself into an indecent little black dress, which put everything on show.
Tad—or whatever he was called—approached me as soon as I stepped into the elevator of the Kamenev Hotel above the casino. Short, stout, and wearing a ridiculously large cowboy hat, he had proudly informed me that he was a wealthy stockbroker having a “chill-out weekend”. Then he proceeded to boldly grab my hand and led me to the roulette table where he was on a winning streak. I didn’t complain because from that vantage point, I had a great view of Darryl Winer sitting comfortably in a makeshift VIP section that consisted of some expensive-looking leather couches, glass tables, and some cronies I could only guess were his business associates of some sort.
Tad jumped, squeezing my hip with glee. “You’re my lucky charm, babe,” he murmured cheerfully, after winning on yet another substantial bet.
I looked at the dealer, who gave us a strange look, like he thought Tad was pulling a fast one on him somehow. Annoyed, I looked away. Just how much of this was I supposed to take?
I glanced over at Darryl, willing him to get up and go—so I could get up and go. But he was in the middle of what looked like an important discussion, and didn’t look like he’d be leaving anytime soon.
Suddenly, one of the guys with him looked up and met my eye. I knew I was supposed to look away that very instant, to avoid being remembered, but for whatever reason, I found that I couldn’t. Unlike the rest of his posse, he wasn’t in a suit, favoring jeans and a faded grey T-shirt that did wonders for his torso, even from my vantage point. His eyes were, if I wasn’t mistaken, an intense, pale blue and they were unwaveringly focused on me. His expression was blank but his gaze was so powerful, I could almost physically feel it sifting through my very soul.
I tore my eyes away, biting my bottom lip with worry. Just what was I doing making eye contact with one of Winer’s buddies?
Don’t you understand the word inconspicuous? I scolded myself.
It didn’t matter anyway. Five minutes later, Winer was done. Ten minutes later, I extracted myself from Tad, faking a headache, and went up to Suite 304. Then I remembered Cassie Winer had informed me that Darryl was one floor below me. So I decided against the elevator and took the crimson-carpeted stairs up, intending to scope out the second floor. If I got lucky, I’d probably bump into Darryl bringing a skank to his room, and get to go home early.
However, the second floor was eerily quiet, so I shuffled up to my room, swiped the card in the slot, and pushed the door open.
I rarely drank, but tonight, I needed to make an exception. The bar fridge was well-stocked with the kinds of things I liked—good wine, good beer, and very good Mountain Dew—and I grabbed a can of the soda, forgoing my plan of getting shitfaced on the job.
Bed, I thought, crushing the empty can in my hand and flinging it into the dustbin.
I then went into the bathroom—admiring its nice black-and-white theme—and used the facilities. Once all my make-up had been cleaned off and I could look into the mirror without being repulsed, I went ba
ck into the room and wrote up my notes for that day. There was nothing to report.
After that, I peeled the godforsaken dress off, and pulled on cotton boxers and a peach camisole. I took out the bobby pins in my hair, pulled everything into a messy ponytail, and dove under the covers. Hotel beds were always a blessing. No matter which country or continent, I could never find fault with one. In fact, sleep was beginning to hit me as soon as my head touched the pillow—until I felt someone in the room.
I couldn’t see in the dark, of course. But that didn’t mean someone wasn’t standing in my hotel room, watching me sleep, and freaking me the hell out. Experiencing a jolt of déjà vu, I took a deep breath, rolled out of bed, and flicked the bedside lamp on.
“I have a gun,” I lied, and finally, the shadow in one corner came to life and walked into the hazy light.
“You don’t have a gun.”
I suddenly found it extremely hard to breathe.
Winer’s denim-and-T-shirt buddy was standing there.
On closer inspection, I could see that his eyes were indeed blue, the blue of a clear morning sky. His hair was even blacker than mine, which I didn’t think was possible, and contrasted severely with those pale eyes of his. Long and thick, it hung in a pulled-back mane that fell just past his shoulders, a waterfall of tar.
I took a step back and bumped into the nightstand, grimacing. “How did you get in?”
“Master card,” he replied coolly, holding it up in the light. “I’m part-owner of the hotel.” As if that gave him the right to waltz into his clients’ suites at eleven in the evening.
Looking at him, I didn’t want to ponder the fact that I would’ve at least heard the door being opened if that were true. And I didn’t want to ponder the question of how he even knew which room I was in. Quite frankly, I didn’t want to ponder anything—except for how to get him out of my room as fast as possible and with minimal ruckus.
He was tall. Disturbingly tall. A Shaquille O’Neal to my Eva Longoria. I placed him at six foot six or so. I wasn’t good at estimating but I was pretty sure I was close. I was also positive that this did not bode well for me. Tall guys generally meant trouble for someone like me.
Shit, what if he recognized me from somewhere?
Renée’s words came back to haunt me. It doesn’t matter that most of them are powerful—ergo dangerous… I really wasn’t ready for another lesson in the joys of strangulation.
The Kamenev was a world-class hotel owned by a group of mysterious Russians. Just looking at this guy and knowing he was part-owner added up to “powerful and dangerous Russian”—even without the accent.
And he was standing in my hotel room!
I swallowed. “Is there a problem?” I mentally gave myself kudos for managing to keep my voice steady despite how jumpy I was inside.
“Rainelle,” he said quietly, “you were eye-fucking me in the casino.”
I didn’t know what to be mad about first—that he knew my name when I didn’t know his, or that he’d used the term “eye-fucking” to describe my looking at him for a few innocent seconds.
Folding my arms across my chest, I scowled at him. “Excuse me?”
His eyes pierced mine. “So here I am,” he went on as if he didn’t hear me. “Fuck me.”
My face burned with humiliation. Oh, God! I thought, speechless. This is a dream.
I immediately pinched my left arm. Nope. Not a dream. He was still there, still sexy as sin.
Deciding to change tack, I spat, “That’s right. Fuck you! How dare you break into my room and speak to me like this?”
There were no steps left to take backward when “Scary Russian Guy” approached me. The nightstand was behind me, digging into the exposed skin on the back of my legs.
Lampshade!
I instantly felt for it behind me and wrapped my hand around the wooden stand, yanking hard enough to rip it out of its socket and fling it into the air. The man, however, caught my wrist before I could whack him, and held that arm above my head until I was forced to drop my weapon of choice on the ground.
My vocal cords stopped functioning when his right hand shot out and cupped my chin, tilting it up to him. The instant he did that, every traitorous nerve and muscle in my body jumped to attention.
“So feisty,” he said in a low voice, the pad of his thumb running across my bottom lip.
I involuntarily shivered.
“And I can see how much you want me.”
“You can’t see shit.” My head snapped back and I slapped his hand away. “Arrogant jerk. Get out!” I was still irked by the “eye-fucking” comment. I’d never been accused of eye-fucking before. Stalking, yes, because that’s what I technically did for a living. Eye-fucking? Never!
A slow smile spread across his face and it made him look twice as good, which wasn’t good.
I was still admiring how perfectly shaped his lips were when, without warning, he pulled me to him, his big hands cupping my ass. At this point, I was positive that my heart would thump its way out of my chest and splatter against his T-shirt. Then my hands came up of their own accord and my palms rested flat against his broad chest. But for some strange reason, they wouldn’t push him away.
He considered me in the light, his eyes scrutinizing my face. And then he brought his mouth down on mine, one hand cupping the back of my neck and the other firmly on one butt cheek. His kiss started surprisingly tentative, like he was afraid to break me. I hadn’t done any kissing in a long time so it wasn’t a wonder that I instantly parted my lips and allowed his tongue entry. A surge of immense pleasure swirled in the pit of my belly when his tongue touched mine, as he deepened the kiss and gently sucked my tongue. It was powerful, pleasurable.
He then scooped me up, his strong forearms now firmly beneath my ass. This was when I was supposed to resolutely put him in his place and get some sleep. But no! His mouth was still locked on mine and I allowed him to scoop me up and set me back onto the bed. He wasn’t wearing cologne and he didn’t need to. The smell of his body musk was more than enough to titillate my senses. The scent made me want to taste every inch of his skin—and start all over again when I was done.
Once on top of me, he artfully scrunched my top up beneath my neck, exposing my breasts for scrutiny. My nipples yearned for attention. His fingers gave it. He tweaked them, slowly taking his lips away from mine and lowering them instead to one aching bud. He then took it into his mouth and rolled it with his tongue, pulling it, relieving it. My hands sank into his cascade of hair, tugging it less than gently. His long locks were soft and thick, and for whatever reason, that was a turn-on as well. With his mouth on one nipple and his fingers teasing the other, “Scary Russian Guy” was way too close to making me come. Just like that. Scary!
His mouth suddenly trailed soft kisses down my taut belly, threatening to undo me. My boxers came off before I could so much as blink, and at the back of my mind, I was thankful that I’d gotten a Brazilian before this Vegas trip.
He seemed to be grateful as well when he spread my legs apart and immediately placed his mouth on my opening. I gasped, quivering as he ran his tongue up my slit. Then he drew my pulsing clit into his mouth, sucking on it and sending intense shivers throughout my entire body. Heat built up where his mouth was and I arched my back, giving in to the burn. I released his hair and frantically clawed at the sheets, squeezing my eyes shut as his tongue plunged deep into me. I was right—powerful and pleasurable, a dangerous combination.
Over and over, his tongue lashed into me, tasting me, bringing me so close to the edge of orgasm, I could almost touch it. Then he placed the pad of his thumb on my clit and rubbed it to bring me there. Deeper, his tongue went, and I quickly came in a series of spasms, trying to keep myself from screaming. His mouth didn’t falter as he coaxed yet another orgasm out of me. And I couldn’t keep from screaming when I came the second time.
Wow, I thought, breathing heavily. No one had ever made me come during oral, let alone twice. N
o one.
Dazed, I watched through heavy-lidded eyes as he raised his head and regarded me, his hands cinched around my thighs.
“You ready?” he asked, his voice a low growl.
“For… for what?” I stammered, shivering where he touched me. I was lost in post-orgasm bliss.
“For me,” he said, and he gracefully rose to his feet. He pulled his shirt over his head, and I got a good eyeful of flawless tan skin and faint wisps of dark chest hair. His eyes were on mine as he unbuckled his jeans, the denim skimming down his narrow hips.
He had gone commando.
That thing, I thought, now fully alert as I eyed his long, veined, and erect cock, is supposed to go inside me?
He grabbed the backs of my legs, pulled me toward the foot of the bed and brought my legs up and over his shoulders, so I was wide open. With my ass on the edge of the bed, I gasped when his fingers sought my opening once more. He pushed two inside me, stretching me. I bit my bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.
“So wet,” he whispered, moving around inside me with his digits, “for me.”
I was panting heavily, my hands gripping the sheets. This was wrong, wrong on so many levels. He was a scary Russian guy and I was supposed to be afraid of him, not gasping for air as he stood over me and finger-fucked me—after giving me two orgasms in a row with his amazing tongue.
Dammit! Why do the wrong things feel so damn right?
“You ready?” he repeated, retracting his fingers.
I felt devastatingly empty without them.
I looked him in the eye and decided to use his words. “Fuck me.”
A smile tugged at the corner of his lips and he leaned over me, tilting my ass in the air in the process, and reached under the pillows to pull something out.
A condom.
There were condoms under my pillow.
Don’t! Don’t analyze this.
SRG had the foil packet open and the latex on in less than ten seconds. I only had one of those seconds to think about backing out before he was slowly guiding himself inside me and then I forgot every word synonymous to “no”. I felt him at my entrance and our eyes briefly met—his a smoldering navy blue, mine probably an eager green—before he sank into my flesh.
