by Stone, Piper
“Enough. I will inform you if I hear anything else.”
“Good enough, Mikhail.”
“You take care, my friend. You owe me a game of poker when you return.”
Poker. One of Mikhail’s favorite games, although certainly not the most dangerous.
“You have my word on that.”
There were no ceremonious goodbyes, only an end of a conversation. I tossed the phone onto the bar, moving back toward the window. I shifted to my desk, pulling the Beretta into the shadowed light. Viktor would come for me, but only when he believed the timing was right to destroy everything I’d worked for. He would enjoy making me suffer, going to extremes in order to do so. I would be ready and this time, there would be no one to save him from my wrath.
I checked the ammunition, making certain I was prepared for anything.
The mission needed to be concluded quickly for several reasons, one of which my greatest weakness.
I knew the restaurant where Giliana was employed.
I’d located the gym in which she worked out every other day.
And I knew exactly where she lived, far removed from the glorious digs of her father.
The feisty siren who’d attempted to duel with the devil had met her match.
I would take her.
I would defile her.
I would cage her.
I would use her.
Then she would beg for more.
There was no doubt in my mind, by this time tomorrow night, she would belong to me.
Chapter Five
Giliana
“One day you will learn what it means to embrace extreme desires, longing for everything that I can and will give to you. But only if you learn to obey every. Single. Command.”
The damn words had lingered, festering in my mind since the Russian had issued them in such a casual manner. My God, I didn’t even know his name.
I’d even repeated them, faking the same delicious accent. I was freaking pathetic. My mouth was dry even now just thinking about him.
His touch.
His kiss.
His savagery.
I closed my eyes, envisioning the way he’d devoured me with his fingers. I’d allowed myself to get into the ridiculous situation. It was entirely my fault. While I’d enjoyed the playtime, the very game he’d accused me of, I’d learned quickly that I’d messed with the wrong man.
Then why did I have some crazy desire to spar with him again? Insanity. That was the answer.
The Russian was dangerous, my instinct screaming that there was an ulterior motive for the man to be at the party, even if he had an invitation. Or perhaps the gun that I’d felt in his tuxedo jacket was a dead giveaway. He certainly wasn’t a member of my father’s elite security team.
Maybe my father had wronged him in some business, forcing a sale or even worse. Since my father’s pleading call, insisting that I come work with him, I’d checked up on his business activities. Wyland Worthington was a man to be reckoned with, much like he’d been in Texas, but I’d detected an even more significant change in him.
His business practices were now entirely unscrupulous. I’d always known he’d bordered on criminal activity, but a portion of his business had been legitimate, working long days to build a life. Sadly, I’d read several articles on his rise to power, none of which reminded me of the man I’d known so long ago.
Maybe I’d simply had rose-colored glasses on for far too long.
I’d been Daddy’s little girl when I was little, adoring everything he did, while my brother had pushed away from the family business entirely. That had almost pulled my family apart, the bitter arguments that had occurred every day. In my mind, my father could do no wrong, working so hard to provide for his family, advancing from riding with a basic cattle crew to owning his own ranch. Within years, he’d purchased two more, the family’s wealth increasing tenfold. He’d changed his practices, involved in land development deals that had nothing to do with ranching life. Somehow, greed had taken him over, turning him into a different man entirely.
That and despair, my mother’s illness and early death driving him into a bottle, altering the honest and respectable man into someone I no longer recognized. That had been the very moment I entered my small but significant life of crime, learning to pick pockets not for the money as much as the attention.
I’d been such a stupid teenager, lost in my own world of grief, my father incapable of doing anything but bailing me out of jail on more than one occasion. He’d even used his influence with a Texas judge to have my juvie record shoved under the rug. That was the extent of his parental guidance after my mother’s death.
Why was I lamenting over the past? I knew the answer.
My father’s request and the fact I’d resorted to seeking another round of thrills. Why in God’s name I had slipped my hand into the pocket of a few of the guests was beyond me. I wasn’t planning on using their credit cards. I’d even shoved the cash into a donation box, hopeful my guilt would ease.
So far, it hadn’t.
My life had been everything I’d dreamed about achieving.
Why are you lying to yourself?
My inner voice had nagged at me all day. I knew exactly why I’d searched the pockets of my father’s guests. I wanted to find out what was really going on. My father never did anything without a reason, including asking for my help.
I should have remained in Paris, although I’d made some bad choices while I was there. Christ. My life was a mess. I’d run away, accepting a position that I’d had no business taking simply to have thousands of miles between us. At least my brother was following his dream, defending the innocent.
I hadn’t spoken to my brother in over six months. Perhaps a call was long overdue. I envied him, his ability to get away from the horrific family relations with dignity something to be proud of.
I don’t know why I’d thought things could be different if I returned. The last words I’d spoken with my father had been all about accusations. I rubbed my forehead, questioning my judgment. Was my father living in a beautiful mansion, his bank accounts likely stuffed with cash? Yes. Did he associate with powerful and influential friends? Without a doubt.
But something was off that I hadn’t been able to put my fingers on.
Other than his love of priceless objects had intensified, I remained uncertain. The glow and show masquerade party had been nothing more than a glorified grandstanding technique. Why? Pain? Grief? My father refused to talk about my mother at all.
Maybe what I believed had happened all those years ago was really true. Bile formed in my throat, suffocating me.
My instinct told me that whatever my father was into this time had shot up to an entirely different level than before I’d left the country. I regretted my decision to return here. To this place. Now my own father felt like I owed him, required to work alongside him since my brother had refused. I would have nothing to do with Worthington Enterprises. Nothing.
And the Russian? With any luck, I’d never see him again.
Except you long to have him touch you, drag you into the heat of passion.
I rubbed my eyes, angry I still couldn’t get him out of my mind. I was a hopeless romantic.
Fuck. Fuck!
“Chef, the customers are raving about the food tonight.”
The near squeal from the waitress was far too annoying, or perhaps I was simply in a bad mood. I was dragged out of my thoughts, forced to take a series of deep breaths. Every move I made had been scrutinized since my return, including from the owner of this... restaurant.
Breathe and get a grip.
As if I was buying a damn word my little voice was saying to me right now.
I resisted glaring at her, instead turning my attention toward the oversized clock on the wall. For a Sunday night, the restaurant was hopping more than usual. Thank God dinner service was almost over. Still, I’d been the head chef for two weeks and both the number of customers as well as
the ticket price had increased.
My claim to fame.
That was damn good since I’d found myself almost begging for the job. My life shouldn’t have turned out this way, forced to return to a city my father liked to call his home town. Sadly, his Texas twang gave him away, even though the eclectic people from New Orleans had adopted him as one of their own.
I cringed at the thought.
If only they knew my father; his merciless ways and nasty attitude. Perhaps they wouldn’t fawn over him at the dinner parties he attended on a regular basis if they knew he was little more than a thief. He and his business partners had appeared on the cover of Forbes magazine, all while all four men were under scrutiny with the FBI. I’d found that juicy tidbit in a Dallas newspaper article. Sadly, the reporter had simply disappeared, or I’d hunt him down, insisting on the source.
I couldn’t help but wonder if my father had anything to do with the man’s sudden departure.
One way or the other, I was in way over my head, but I would stick to my resolve.
I loved cooking, the freedom of creativity and I refused to give it up, even if Daddy placed my inheritance on hold. In my mind, the money was tainted, dirty.
Just like the little girl he’d raised.
“Good to hear, Misty. Table fifty-two is up. Please get the plates out before they get cold,” I barked in passing, noticing the cautious looks given to me by my sous chef, a man who didn’t like me very much.
He needed to take a number.
I was brash given it was still more of a man’s occupation, especially in this city. That’s one reason I’d left for Paris, preferring an entirely new world where no one knew me. I sighed at the thought. I’d left an amazing job in a breathtaking city to return to my every move being scrutinized by my father.
Stop lying to yourself.
Misty rolled her eyes as she grabbed the plates, huffing before leaving the kitchen.
“You could ease up on her,” Mark snarked from the other side of the line. “We’re like family here.”
“Family doesn’t work when organization and teamwork is needed.” At least that had been my life’s experience.
“God, they call you a bitch for a reason.”
The moment I turned in order to chastise him, my skirt shifted across my backside, a slice of discomfort a reminder of the night before. Anger floated into my system for two reasons, the first being I was required to wear a damn skirt while working at the restaurant. A black mark in my mind toward the chauvinistic owner. More important, I was still furious with myself for letting my guard down with the Russian.
My breath was instantly ragged as I thought about the man, his dominance over me so unexpected. I couldn’t believe I’d allowed him to spank me.
Why was I wet all over just thinking about it?
I wasn’t that kind of woman. I hated a strict use of authority, especially by pompous men who believed their actions were justified.
Commanding.
Rugged.
Sexy.
Even if the Russian had created more than one intense fantasy during the middle of the night. I shook off the sensations, pulling the last ticket. A single dinner. Hurray. Maybe I could get the hell out of here at a decent hour tonight.
I thought about my father’s odd request the moment I’d entered his house.
“I want you to observe the guests. I have a feeling there will be an attempt at stealing something from me. I respect your keen observation skills, Giliana. Just do this for me, okay?”
Something. He’d refused to elaborate on what piece of art he was talking about. Hell, he’d spent a better part of the night glowing and showing several of them, gloating like a stuffed pig. Sighing, I directed my attention back to my duties. I couldn’t control my father, but I certainly could embrace attempting to make a name for myself in a town full of fabulous chefs.
Within minutes, I had the blackened salmon prepared, tidying up the plate before handing it directly to Misty.
She didn’t mutter a word before storming out of the kitchen. I wasn’t winning any friends. “Let’s shut down.”
“Yes, Mistress. I mean, Chef.”
I heard the taunting and resisted reacting in any manner. The night before had unnerved me, nothing more. A good night’s sleep and a tall glass of wine would help. I moved into my office, totaling the receipts, finally able to smile for the first time during the night. The dollar amount would make the owner very happy.
“Chef?” Misty asked as she leaned against my office door.
I took a deep breath and plastered a smile on my face, determined to make amends. “What is it, Misty?”
“My last customer? He would like to talk to you.”
Greeting the guests and answering their questions was part of my job, although I wasn’t very good at making small talk regarding my food. “I’ll be right there.”
She seemed shocked, her eyes opening wide. “Okay, great. Thank you.”
I dropped my head, the exhaustion settling in. Hopefully, I wasn’t going to be growled at for an expensive but tasteless meal. I yanked off the chef’s jacket, smoothing down my skirt before heading to the door. For some reason, I peered out first, trying to catch a glimpse of the customer in question. I was a fairly good judge of character just by gazing into their eyes. Tonight I didn’t need any surprises. I was able to see a single man sitting in the very corner of the room by the window, preventing me from deciphering anything about him.
Great.
I could be walking into a lion’s den.
Hell, that would make three times in two days. Why not? I rubbed my forehead, yanking the pin from my hair and allowing my dark curls to float against my shoulders. As I walked into the dining room, a sudden wave of fear rushed into me. There was absolutely no reason for it. I was perfectly safe in this environment, one that I’d made certain was far removed from my father’s clutches and the barbarian-like men who worked for him.
In my absence of three years, my father had fashioned himself to be a man of great importance, hiring a driver as well as a security team. I wanted to laugh at the concept.
As I neared the table, I wasn’t able to see his face in the shadows of the candlelight, but there was no doubt the mysterious customer was interesting. There was no iPhone positioned just so on the table in case he received an important phone call. He was also sitting quietly, a drink in front of him, gazing out onto the street.
I was able to catch his reflection in the freshly washed pane of glass, his gaze intent as hell.
The moment I approached, he swiveled in his seat, studying me intently. After only a few seconds, he waved his hand toward the chair opposite of him. “Please, have a seat.”
I had the distinct feeling he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.
I threw a look toward the kitchen, my instinct telling me I was being watched by the entire staff. At least the owner had the night off and wouldn’t interfere.
Or tease me for my impetuous behavior. I deserved to have a little fun and my instincts were on high alert. Something dangerous this way comes...
“I guess I can do that. Misty mentioned you’d like to talk with me. I hope you found the food satisfactory.” I eased onto the chair, the warm glow of the flickering candle finally allowing me to catch aspects of his features—his rugged yet sophisticated features. He was what other women would call perfection in a man: chiseled cheekbones and a high forehead, blond hair sweeping across his temple and hitting just below his collar. Even his jaw was pronounced, accentuating voluptuous lips.
I couldn’t believe I was actually picking him apart, grading his appearance. I’d never done that before even with the parade of gorgeous men that had frequented the Parisian café where I’d worked.
“Yes, Misty. Lovely young woman,” he said in a deep voice. While it was devoid of any discernable accent, I had the distinct feeling that he wasn’t a New Orleans native. “She was very observant tonight, a trait I appreciate.”
He tilted his head, his gaze sweeping my face only, a warm smile forming.
Yet for some crazy reason he gave me the chills. I studied him intently. I’d prided myself on my instincts, the ability to see through every... game a man played. Tonight was no exception. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the mysterious Zorro was sitting right in front of me.
How delicious.
Why not see how far he was going to take round two?
“She is an excellent employee,” I said casually, watching his facial expressions. He was a damn good actor. I’d give him that. “What can I do for you, Mr....”
“Parker,” he said, the deep and husky sound of his voice more like a purr. “Jameson Parker.”
“Well, Mr. Parker, I hope you enjoyed your meal. I think food can be extremely sensuous, evoking raw and intense feelings and sensations.”
“Yes. I totally agree.”
I hated to admit he was sexy as hell, tugging at every erotic desire.
Misty appeared out of the shadows, placing a glass of wine in front of me, another drink in front of Mr. Parker. She remained quiet, although I was able to feel her eyes boring into me, could hear her breath skipping. She was attracted to the glamorous guest.
Too bad.
Was I actually considering taking this any further? Why not?
“I took the liberty of ordering you a glass of your favorite wine, merlot I believe,” he stated authoritatively while giving Misty an appreciative nod.
“My favorite?” He’d obviously taken the time to find out as much about me as possible. Should I be flattered? I feigned concern. Why not keep him on the edge? “Mr. Parker, I—”
“Jameson, please, and I simply asked the bartender what you might enjoy. It is a small offering only, Ms. Worthington, nothing more than a thank you. I assure you of that. Should I call you Chef?” His interruption was exactly what I would have expected of a man dressed impeccably, the sleek ebony and diamond encrusted watch likely costing more than I made in a month.
“Giliana will do just fine,” I countered, noticing his jacket positioned on the back of another chair. By the lump in the pocket, I would have to say he’d come packing. Who the hell was this man? Maybe I was too much of a thrill seeker, but I was even more aroused by his dangerous nature.
