“I figured that. But you need to pick something for yourself, or I will.”
I gave him a brilliant smile. “I have a better idea than a ring.”
A stare-off ensued for at least thirty seconds before Ronan gave in, bought the ring I picked out, and followed me down the street.
I stopped in front of a tattoo parlor’s window.
“Nyet.” It was a hard “no.”
I frowned. “You don’t even know what I want yet.”
His eyes narrowed. “You want a tattoo, and it’s not happening.”
“You have a million, and I can’t have one?”
“Yes.”
With a sigh, I grabbed his hand and ran my finger over the inked raven. “I want this. On my ring finger.”
I thought he liked the idea, but I didn’t stick around to find out. I opened the door and waltzed in. Ronan took over from there. I didn’t have to say a word as he spoke with the tattoo artist and showed him what I wanted. He didn’t threaten the man, but his tone was enough to intimidate the artist into not messing up a single line.
When we walked out of the shop, I flashed my new tattoo at Ronan and asked, “Do you like it?”
His eyes were dark, but his words were soft. “Mne nravitsya.” I love it.
I rose to my toes and kissed him, so in love it felt like I would drown, though I knew he would never let go of my hand. When I pulled back, a glimmer of light in the shadows of Ronan’s eyes was gray. It was only a flicker before it was gone. But it meant everything.
He ran his thumb across my lips. “Ty byla sozdana dlya menya.” You were made for me.
I believed it with everything in me.
“Dazhe ocean ne mog razdelit’ nas,” I breathed beneath the possessive pressure of his thumb on my lips. Even the sea couldn’t keep us apart.
He smiled. “Not even hell, kotyonok.”
That night, I got married in Paris with a raven on my finger. Though, in my heart, I knew this man had never been my Nevermore.
He was my forever.
THE END
PREVIEW OF THE VINTAGE CLUB
CHAPTER ONE
Rain drizzled as I stood in front of a two-story brick building and stared at the nondescript logo on the crimson door: a lapel pin in the shape of a V. It was the fine print below that made my palms itch.
I’d assumed The Vintage Club was a country club; that the most I’d have to deal with was the overeager attention of a frat boy wearing pink shorts and loafers.
Luck and I, however, had never been on good terms.
A rumble of thunder rolling across Chicago’s smoggy nighttime sky was my only warning before rain poured like a tipped-over bucket of water that splattered on my head and soaked my clothes. I sucked in a breath at the wet and ominous assault, and with a growl of resignation, I yanked open the door that read, “Gentlemen’s Club.”
I wasn’t a prude on principle. I just disliked strippers. They reminded me of my mother.
The door fell shut behind me, muffling the torrent of rain outside. Wet and tired, the toll of the day pulled on my muscles. None of the bus routes came to this part of the city, so I’d been dropped off twelve blocks from here. Chicago’s elite must have an aversion to public transportation and compassion.
The entire entryway glittered: the tear-drop chandelier, crystal vases with real lilies, and a few ornamental mirrors. Even the glass desk sparkled as if it’d been carved from diamond.
I took it all in like Alice did Wonderland. Most of the clients I delivered packages to were wealthy, but this place took loaded to another level.
The strippers probably sweat gold.
I pulled my attention from the décor to an Alfred-looking receptionist who stood behind the desk, dressed in a black suit with coattails.
Cool eyes flickered with mounting displeasure as they swept from my messy ponytail, to the Angelo’s T-shirt and jeans I wore to work, to the chucks on my feet, and finally, to the puddle I’d dripped onto the iridescent marble floor.
“We’re not hiring,” he said shortly before averting his attention back to the paperwork on his desk.
An ironic breath escaped me. “Trust me, this would be the last place I’d ever apply.”
He didn’t look convinced.
I stepped closer and, unable to resist the temptation, I moved to run my hand across the sparkly desktop as if it was an expensive car. Before I could touch it, Alfred’s eyes hardened, embodying the stuffy owner who warned to not touch his Maserati.
With an impish look, I did it anyway.
He stacked his papers more aggressively than necessary. What was that? An NDA? Before I could see any more of the corrupt workings of this place, Alfred shoved the paperwork into a folder and said, “The bathroom isn’t open to the public.”
I scratched at the desk with a fingernail as if I was testing a mineral’s hardness. “I’m glad I peed back at the QuikTrip then. They have free paper towels and a twenty-five-cent tampon dispenser. Best accommodations you can find on the South Side.”
“How generous of them,” he said drily. “I’m sure if you return, you’ll be able to find patronage closer to your . . . qualifications.”
“Wow,” I chuckled, my curious fingers grasping a glass paperweight. “I think that’s the sweetest way anyone has ever called me a cheap whore before.”
He stole the paperweight in my hand that was angled toward the light while I examined the facets inside and snapped, “What will make you disappear?”
I raised a brow. “You know, Alfred, you’re not my usual type, but if you keep talking to me like that, I might change my mind.”
His expression conveyed he wouldn’t touch me with the end of a broomstick, and it brought a soft laugh from me.
“Okay, just business then.” Pulling a moist envelope from my back pocket, I slid it onto the desk. “I need to deliver this to one of your patrons, and I promise you’ll never see me again.”
I’d been doing this side job for my neighbor Lucas for a few months. He gave me a package—sometimes just an envelope—and I delivered it. The gig was most likely illegal: Drugs, black-market goods, or some kind of secret political revolution. I didn’t ask questions. Occasionally, the extra money was the only thing that kept the lights on.
“I’m sorry, Miss . . .” He waited for a last name.
I gave him my first. “Emilia.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Emilia, but this is a private club. The only way you’re getting inside is if you’re a guest of a member.” His gaze settled on a spaghetti stain on my T-shirt. “Considering the unlikelihood of that ever happening, do us both a favor and leave.”
I inhaled a deep breath for patience. Although, patience was a virtue, and I’d lost most of those years ago.
“Listen, Alfred. I worked a double shift today, and then I walked twelve blocks to get here. I’m tired. I’m so tired I’m considering curling up on your nice floor, shedding a few tears, and making a big scene. See this envelope?” I waved it in his face. “I don’t get paid unless I personally put it in the recipient’s hand. Now are you going to let me do that, or do I need to make a scene?”
Alfred stared at me for a long second before he picked up his phone and said, “Security.”
Ugh.
I shouldn’t have touched his stupid desk.
I could sit outside and chance getting struck by lightning until Mr. Brown exited. Although, soaking wet in a chauvinistic strip club, it was clear I’d already gambled with luck tonight and lost. Not to mention, my bed was calling my name, and I needed the two hundred dollars this job would bring in—plus, hopefully, a decent tip.
I glanced from the envelope in my hand to the black curtain concealing the room beyond.
Alfred’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare—”
Pushing the curtain aside, I waltzed in. The sensual smell of perfumed skin, illegal blowjobs, and cigar smoke hit me in the face.
The lighting sat at a low romantic glow, and the booths were
red, occupied by a few men in expensive suits sipping even more expensive liquor. A couple of women in lingerie served drinks, while a naked brunette danced on a pole in the center of the room.
While this club was the furthest thing from the one I remembered as a child, the carnal atmosphere still coated my skin with slimy déjà vu.
I searched for Mr. Brown from the ridiculously vague description Lucas had given me: white, early thirties, black hair. I examined each man as I passed, receiving interested glances and even a proposition to sit down from a middle-aged man with a gold band on his ring finger.
I put a hand on my chest as if I was surprised and would be deeply honored to. He smiled a toothy grin and patted the spot beside him. Resting a palm on the table, I leaned in provocatively and whispered, “Not if you were the last man on Earth.”
I didn’t stick around to see the smile fall off his face.
Alfred seethed from across the room. His accusing eyes followed my movements as if I was a wild animal who’d been released inside his precious den of iniquity.
Security must be at lunch, I thought with amusement. The club didn’t even have a bouncer to snap at the patrons when they got handsy with the strippers. I guessed that wouldn’t be very classy.
“Mr. Brown?” I asked the only one in the room who fit the description and who happened to have a woman’s bare ass in his face while she danced in front of him.
He glanced at me, and a devilish smile appeared. “Well, well. Are you new here?”
“What about this outfit says ‘stripper’ to you?” I asked.
“What’s under it?”
A throbbing headache was imminent.
“Lucas sent me.”
Mr. Brown’s gaze filled with understanding, growing heated as it traveled down my body. Unwanted nostalgia, lingering eyes, and wet clothes chafed my skin.
“Damn, that’s unfortunate,” he drawled.
The dancer stilled with a huff, placed her hands on her naked hips, and glared at me. I rolled my eyes and handed Mr. Brown the envelope. He slipped it into his jacket pocket.
“Thanks, babe.”
I held out my hand. He glanced at it, then pulled his gaze to mine, and raised a brow in question. I wiggled my fingers.
“Ah . . . You want my money,” he commented with feigned disappointment. “I thought we had something real going here?”
“In your dreams.”
He smiled and took his time going through his wallet so he could check me out a little longer. Voices brought my attention over my shoulder, and my heart quickened at the sight of Alfred pointing in my direction with an overgrown man in a dark suit by his side.
Mr. Brown slipped a fifty to me. I snatched it up.
“I’d say thanks, but you really inconvenienced me today.”
“Whatever, babe.”
A mountain of a man was headed my way with irritation in his eyes. I probably had ruined his lunch. So I did what any sane woman would do.
I ran.
Pushing a black curtain out of the way, I scrambled to find a way out of this place. Multiple doors lined the hall on either side, but no red exit sign beckoned me to safety.
“I swear to God, when I catch you . . .” the bouncer muttered from not far behind me.
It felt like I was a preteen again running from the police with a pilfered can of baby formula in my hoodie. The only options had been stealing or listening to hungry cries while my foster parents of the month were out on a binge.
Where was the freaking exit? This Wonderland was no longer sparkly, but a nightmare of red doors and black curtains.
The sounds of the bouncer’s steps were closing in, and the idea of being caught in his oversized paws grabbed ahold of my chest.
I opened the nearest door and shut it with a quiet click. I kept my hand on the knob, listening to my heavy breaths and the bouncer’s footsteps pass in the hall.
“I said I wasn’t interested in entertainment tonight.” The cold and distant voice prickled my back.
Exhaling, I spun around to see I stood in a private room furnished with a silver pole, a bar, red velvet chairs, and a couch where a suit jacket had been discarded.
A man sat at the booth in the corner. His forearms rested on the table while he studied the paperwork strewn in front of him. A white dress shirt molded his torso like a second skin, the fabric pulled taut at his biceps. The lighting was dim, but by the way the shadows caressed his face, it was clear he was undeniably handsome.
The designer suit, the watch on his wrist, the fade haircut that probably cost more than my monthly rent—all of it screamed money. Though the more obvious tells of power were the set of his shoulders and the heavy presence surrounding him like a shield. It was hot and uncomfortable to the touch as if I was standing close to the thick heat of a fire.
“Honestly,” I sighed with tightly leashed exasperation, “do I look like a stripper?”
The man didn’t even glance at me. “I couldn’t care less what you look like.” He sounded distracted and annoyed. “Leave.”
I had no doubt when he said that single word women fled. His command burned in my stomach with the itch to submit. I hated it.
I’d grown a thick skin in my twenty-two years having to fend for myself a majority of that time. The best thing my mother ever did for me was put her boyfriend of the month—who she always swore was “the one”—before everything else, including me.
Her neglect taught me to protect myself from men at a very young age. It also showed me most of the male species sucked. And the fact this one threatened to crumble my confidence like the Berlin Wall with just a few words . . . well, that really annoyed me.
I took a step into the room, my eyes taking everything in, and nonchalantly asked, “Did your maid forget to put a chocolate on your pillow last night? Is that why you’re acting like such a prick?”
His gaze finally came to me. Deep, dark, and hostile. Clearly, he’d never been called such a name in his life. I relished the opportunity to be the first.
He slid a stare down my body, criticizing my attire with a single touch of his eyes. He didn’t have to say a word to announce he found me lacking in every way. Thankfully, I had a more-than-healthy amount of self-esteem.
“I can’t figure out if you’re a desperate attempt on the club’s part to interest me, or if you’re a lost orphan off the street who never got spanked as a child.”
The quick wit was so surprising, a laugh escaped me. “Let me guess, you want to spank me?”
“No. Go away.”
“Yeah, about that . . .” I ran my hand across the back of a soft, velvet chair. “We’re kind of stuck together for the time being.”
The look he shot me expressed he still believed I was a stripper; that this getup was a caught-in-the-rain waitress costume and I’d soon be taking it off. Though it seemed he wasn’t lying when he said he wasn’t interested. He returned his attention back to his paperwork. Tension tightened his shoulders, frustration evident in the muscles beneath. He looked like he really could use a woman’s touch.
Too bad it wasn’t going to be me.
In my quest to touch everything in sight, I meandered over to the pole in my chucks, ran a finger down it, and then looked at the pad of it as if I was inspecting for dust.
“Why so glum?” I asked. “Did Daddy disinherit you?”
His gaze flashed to mine. “You’re shitty entertainment.”
I laughed. “That’s probably because I’m not here to entertain you.”
The man looked like a gentleman, but he was so bluntly rude and quick in return to my taunts I was beginning to enjoy myself. It wasn’t often men surprised me.
His eyes scalded my skin as I grabbed the pole and slowly spun around it in my wet, spaghetti-stained T-shirt.
“You’re lucky you even have a father,” I said. “Mine left me with too many daddy issues.”
“I can tell.”
“Ouch.” I pouted and touched my heart. Walking to
ward him, I pulled myself up onto the table and sat on his paperwork. “What are you working on?”
His annoyance was so heady it filled the room like smoke. I suddenly needed oxygen; to escape this room before hot flames licked at my skin. But a cool spark of adrenaline swayed me.
Sadly, irritating this man was the most fun I’d had in a while.
Meeting his stare head-on, the urge to glance away tugged at my nerves. Now so close, his eyes glittering with displeasure, it felt like an illegal act to hold his gaze. He was the kind of handsome that made a girl’s breath slow. The kind that rushed all the blood in her body to the tips of her toes.
He was a Picasso behind a wall of glass, the ticket to look upon it too expensive for me to afford.
All of his flaws must be condensed into his personality, because, as far as I could see, there wasn’t a visible one in sight.
Luck sure was an unfair bitch.
He sat back. “Why explain it when we both know it’s over your head?”
I raised a haughty brow. “I’ll have you know I was at the top of my class at Brighton High.”
He recognized the name of the shittiest public school in Chicago. “A difficult feat, I’m sure.”
I leaned back on my hands and sighed like I was reminiscing. “Although, that’s mostly because I fucked my chemistry teacher.” That was a lie. The bastard had cornered me in his classroom and shoved his hand up my skirt. I understood my psyche. I used my painful past experiences to shock and, therefore, feel like I had control of them.
In short, I was a mess.
His expression tightened in disapproval. “Who taught you to talk like that?”
“My mom,” I said seriously.
“Charming.”
“What? Can’t say ‘fuck’ from that pretty boy mouth of yours?”
“What’s on your neck?”
I tilted my head to give him a better view, purposely swinging my long, dark ponytail in his face. I bit my cheek to hold in the smile when he evaded it with a look of annoyance.
The tattoo on the nape of my neck was a geometrical triangle. No, it didn’t mean anything. I just loved the design.
“You like?” I asked.
The Darkest Temptation Page 42
