The Player (The Game Maker #3)

by Kresley Cole

  My eyes widened with realization. “You’ve already decided to cut the Sevastyans! My ‘assignment’ to dig . . . it’s busy work, isn’t it?” To make me feel better about Nigel!

  After a moment, Pete raised his palms.

  Busy work and babysitting. If he sidelined me, I’d go crazy in the next three weeks. How could I not be out fighting for my loved ones?

  I burned to prove my value and contribute when they needed me most. My gaze darted up, landing on a beast’s lair. Words started leaving my mouth: “You know what? You’re not going to bench me. Because I’m gonna run game on the juiciest mark of them all—Dmitri Sevastyan.”

  CHAPTER 2

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  Pete laughed—until he saw I was serious. “Karin couldn’t get a word out of him.”

  Last night, when Pete had heard the Sevastyans were heading down to the VIP lounge, he’d sent me home and called in the family’s MVP for a milk-cow con—one of the most difficult of the long cons.

  In a milk-cow, a temptress would whip a mark into a sexual frenzy, teasingly withholding intercourse to maneuver him into buying jewelry, cars, even real estate.

  “Not a single word.” Pete shook his head. “Even though Dmitri was dateless, and she was on.”

  If Karin couldn’t get the Russian to engage, then he wasn’t engage-able. But I’d talked a big game. “Then I won’t be wasting a potential mark, will I?”

  “Don’t be pissed.”

  I handed Pete my purse. “Pissed? Me? Haven’t you heard?” I started toward the stairs, saying over my shoulder, “I’m cold as ice.”

  In reality, I was so pissed I almost stomped up the steps. But I controlled my temper, keeping my heels from striking the tile surface. Maybe I could sneak up on Dmitri and observe him unawares.

  I knew the basics about him from Pete’s copious notes. Thirty-two years old, a resident of Russia, raised in Siberia. Youngest of the three brothers. A computer and math prodigy.

  He’d graduated at the top of his class from Oxford, then founded a company that revolutionized aspects of business computing. He’d cashed out with a couple of patents, retiring a billionaire. Yet there were few mentions of him online—and zero pictures.

  As I stepped onto the deck, I raised my brows at the beast’s extravagant lair. Fire pits lit the area. A hot tub steamed under a wisteria-covered trellis, and a mosaic-tiled fountain sloshed against the back wall. A fully stocked bar stood off to the side, unmanned.

  I spotted Dmitri at the railing, taking in the city’s vista. Not another soul was up here.

  I silently approached, noting details about him. He had a muscular build and stood well over six feet, even taller than my ex’s six foot three.

  My grandmother would call Dmitri Sevastyan a mountain of a man. He’d tower over my five feet four.

  His expensive clothes were so well made, I nearly salivated. He wore tailored gray slacks that highlighted his narrow hips and tight ass. His charcoal-colored shirt clung to his back and arm muscles.

  Beneath the thin material, I could see his triceps bulging as he white-knuckled that railing. Like Bruce Banner warding off the Hulk.

  Pete had told me he’d picked up intermittent tension in Dmitri and Aleks, the oldest Sevastyan brother. Perhaps they’d fought and Dmitri was taking out his frustration on others?

  If Dmitri was so angry, why not go back to his room? Why not take his fortune and fly somewhere else?

  In the next second, everything I speculated got turned upside down—because Dmitri’s head tipped back, and his broad shoulders rose and fell on a breath. Even from this angle I could tell he was gazing at the full moon.

  People didn’t normally do that when stewing; they did it when they felt regret, or even longing.

  A flare of pity arose. His family was right downstairs, but he remained here all by himself.

  That was the thing about the beast from fairy tales; he didn’t want to be a beast. He didn’t want to be alone.

  Dmitri finally released his grip to rub his temples.

  Curiosity to see his face won out, so I headed toward the opposite end of the railing, letting my heels click.

  He dropped his hands, and his muscles tensed even more. “How many times do I have to fucking say this?” he bit out, his accent thick. As he turned toward me, he snapped, “I—AM—NOT—GODDAMNED—INTER . . .” He trailed off, looking staggered.

  I knew the feeling. Dmitri Sevastyan was . . . magnificent.

  His flawless, masculine face swindled your breath and left your lungs holding the bag.

  Thick black hair, chiseled cheekbones. Proud, slim nose and a rugged jaw. His eyes were blazing amber.

  Beautiful, beautiful beast. I nearly reeled on my feet. I never did that, except as a ruse for pick-pocketing.

  Once the angry set of his jaw eased, his lips went from thinned to oh-so-kissable. That vivid gaze of his roamed over my body from my heels to the top of my head. “You . . .” he breathed.

  Make the talk, Vice. “Me?” I knew we hadn’t met. Because his face would’ve been seared into my brain forever.

  “. . . are stunning. The sight of you has defeated my wits.”

  Huh? Guys thought I was pretty, but in the land of long-legged showgirls and surgically enhanced models, it took a lot to stand out. (I’d always told myself I would crush it in Reno.)

  And what about Karin? Maybe he’d forgotten his contacts last night.

  Instead of chasing me away, the beast strode over to join me. I had to crane my head up to meet his gaze. Well, hello there, big guy.

  He stood so close I could feel the heat coming off his body. I caught a hint of his aftershave—evergreen and something mysterious—and I wanted to purr. No, not a hint—a hit. His scent was a drug spiking the air.

  “I am Dmitri Sevastyan,” he said in a deep voice. “You must tell me your name.” With way too much familiarity, he lifted that loose lock of my hair, the color stark against his tanned skin.

  Engagement! What if I actually could run this guy?

  “I’m Victoria Valentine.” My steady tone was impressive.

  “Victoryaa.” The way he drew out the end of my name, rumbling the last syllable, made my cheeks burn.

  I’d never been able to control my blushing, no matter how much grief my family gave me over a tell. “It’s nice to meet you. But I believe you were about to yell at me that you weren’t goddamned interested?”

  Color tinged his own cheekbones, and he dropped my hair. “The women here have been . . . persistent.”

  “Most guys would consider that a good problem to have.”

  “The women weren’t the only irritation,” he said. “I had the sense that tonight would be different in some way. I was disappointed.”

  “I figured.”

  “Why?” His gaze skimmed my face, lingering on each of my features, as if committing them to memory.

  “People who sigh at the moon are usually filled with regret or longing.” Now that I’d snagged his attention, it was time to be elusive. “I’ll leave you to it, big guy.” I turned toward the stairs. Chase me, chase me. . . .

  Dmitri rushed to cut me off. “However, I am no longer disappointed since this curvy little blonde appeared, because in the moonlight, she looks like an angel. And I happen to be in great need of one.”

  Angel? To save my family, I’d cut his nuts with a hangnail if I had to. “What if I’m not an angel? What if I’m a she-demon? Would you lock horns with me?”

  He nodded solemnly. “I would very much like to lock anything with you.”

  He was serious, but I caught myself fighting a grin. “Locking horns can be very meaningful, Mr. Sevastyan, and we’ve only just met.”

  One corner of his lips quirked. “Call me Dmitri. Or Dima.” He stood between me and the stairs.

  “You’ve been bellowing at women all night, yet you’re preventing me from leaving? I don’t kno
w whether to be flattered or alarmed.”

  “You heard that?” Another flush over those cheekbones.

  “I was out on the terrace. I remarked that you were like a beast from a fairy tale, alone in his lair.”

  Holding my gaze, he said, “I’ve found Beauty.”

  My toes curled. I’d been prepared for anger and blustering, not charm. My eyes dipped to his full bottom lip. I had the urge to suck on it.

  Though I’d had every intention of doing the deed with someone since my ex, no guy had tempted me enough. What would it be like to kiss this Russian? To sleep with him?

  “I won’t prevent you from leaving,” he said, “but I invite you to stay.” His hair was close-cut at the sides, yet longer on top. A breeze tousled those thick locks.

  “How do I know you won’t lose your temper again, Dmitri?”

  His lids grew heavy—as if he enjoyed the way I said his name. “I believe I can behave, if motivated by a sweet enough treat.”

  “You believe? You don’t know?”

  “This is foreign territory for me. But I like my new guide very much.”

  Did he, then? My good-girl disguise was paying off! What if I pulled my first ever milk-cow—with a billionaire? That would show everyone! And more importantly . . .

  That would save everyone.

  The con was on. “Perhaps you’re using me to keep other women away.”

  “Perhaps I drove the others away so you would appear in front of me.”

  I tilted my head at him. “You could be using me to make someone else jealous.” Which would explain a lot of this unexpected attention.

  “Twice you’ve accused me of using you. Are you using me?”

  Clever man. I’d have to be careful with this one. “I came up to check out the view. You’re the tourist chatting up the local girl.” In the timeline of a con, we’d just had “the meet.”

  I glanced over my shoulder, wishing Pete could see this. Dmitri’s got a little change in his pocket goin’ jingle lingle ling! I would so fake-flirt with this Russian, in order to manipulate him into fake near-sex situations.

  I would be perfect for a milk-cow, because I didn’t lose control sexually, even when I was supposed to.

  “Do you want to get back to someone?” Dmitri asked. “Are you here with another man?”

  Surely I misheard the jealousy in his tone. “Your VIP host invited me. Peter Valentine’s my cousin.”

  “Ah, yes. He helped smooth over the near arrest of my sister-in-law’s friend.”

  Jessica, the tagalong, was best friends with Natalie Sevastyan, the PhD redhead.

  We’d been stoked about Jessica’s trouble with the law, thinking dirt! But Pete had heard the woman begging for a “pic with the po-po.” For her blog. “You guys must’ve been having a ton of fun for the LVPD to step in.” The five-o seemed to have given up on my family and our KAs.

  “Jessica attracts trouble wherever she goes.” Sounding mystified, Dmitri said, “And yet she is invited everywhere with the group.”

  “I think she’s funny. As I passed her downstairs, she was wondering aloud if a local plant-eater would be a ‘vegan Las Vegan.’ Then she did a spot-on Lady Gaga impression.”

  “Funny?” Dmitri seemed to be processing this information.

  “Yep.” Pete had told me he’d walked in on Jessica in the men’s bathroom, voguing and primping her hair. Upon seeing him, she’d lifted a leg and plopped her heel on the counter to vogue her junk. “My bush stylist talked me into this natural look,” she’d told him, “but I’m not convinced. What say you, Peter Pumpkin Eater?” And she thought he was straight.

  Dmitri gave a curt nod. “Jessica is around your age. You would want to socialize with her. I will take you inside.”

  “Wait, I don’t want to intrude.” He sounded as if he wanted to formally introduce me. “Pete said you’re here to celebrate something.” I worried my bottom lip.

  His eyes clocked the little movement. “Da. Natalie, my oldest brother’s wife, completed her doctorate. And my middle brother and his wife just had their four-year anniversary.” Maksimilian, the retired politician, and his hot Latina heiress, Lucía.

  Pete had learned the pair owned half of Miami and were refurbishing it while they acquired the other half. “Those are some great accomplishments. Most people come here to celebrate getting a paycheck on Friday.”

  He raised his gaze from my mouth. “You do sound like a local.”

  “Third generation.” My mom came from a long line of serial brides, and my dad descended from carnies. They’d never leave this city.

  “What do you do here?”

  “I sling drinks downstairs. Like my sister.” I had to find out why he was talking to me over her. Grifters around town had nicknamed her “the Woman,” because she was everything a man could ever want in one. Even my mom, the infamous Diamond Jill, hadn’t landed as many marks in her badger days. “Karin served you guys last night at the tables.”

  “Had you been there, we could have met a day sooner,” he said, as if he regretted the loss.

  I’d been substituted out by Coach Grift.

  Dmitri frowned. “I hope we tipped your sister enough.”

  “Plenty.” A family record for tips, in fact. And it’d all gone toward the debt. Always the freaking debt. Which brought my mind back to the con. Time for more elusiveness. “I better be going. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

  He clasped my elbow with a warm, strong hand.

  My back shot straight as if I’d been jolted, and unfamiliar sensations radiated through my body. A rush of heat mixed with shivers? Before I turned back to him, I masked my look of bewilderment.

  He didn’t mask his. His eyes had narrowed, his lips parting. “I had no idea skin could be so soft.” He released me to run the backs of his fingers along my bare arm.

  I watched in confusion as my skin prickled in the wake of his caress. Cold-as-Ice Vice was feeling very, very hot. I peered up at him, as if I could find the answer in his expression.

  His eyes really were glorious. This close, I could see his amber pupils were awash with brighter flecks; they made his eyes gleam gold.

  I could get lost in them. If he were a grifter, he’d be a thrall, the type of con artist whose sex appeal was so strong he or she could manipulate a mark’s behavior with just a look.

  He eased in even closer, raising a hand to brush his knuckles over my jawline, then a cheekbone. “So incredibly beautiful, moy ángel.”

  Was this billionaire going to kiss me? I murmured, “You’re a player, aren’t you?”

  Still caressing my face, he said, “Give me your definition of ‘player.’”

  “A guy who finds women interchangeable, and goes through a lot of them. He plays games with their heads.” The only thing worse than a player? A tourist player.

  Dmitri lowered his hand to curl his forefinger under my chin. “There are two things you should know about me, Victoria. One, I will play games with you.”

  Warmth flooded my body, centering between my thighs. I swallowed. “What’s the other thing, big guy?”

  He palmed the back of my head, drawing me close. Yet then he hesitated, as if relishing that he was about to kiss me. “You will like my games.” He leaned down and trailed his warm, firm lips along the side of my neck.

  My lids slid shut, all of my senses heightening. His scent had been enticing; now irresistible. His body heat had been magnetic; now he felt hot as flames.

  My thoughts tried to scatter, but I struggled for control. Potential mark. Keep your head. What’re you doing?

  I perceived his light breaths against my mouth. His lips grazed mine with such tenderness—almost . . . reverence. He was seducing me.

  And it was delicious.

  For all my sexual life, I’d longed for the wild passion other people talked about, wrote about, sang about. I’d enjoyed sex, but I’d easily lived without it for a year. Sometimes I feared I would never find the key to unlock my passion.
r />   When I parted my lips for him, he slanted his mouth and our tongues touched. My breath hitched at the contact, my neglected libido sizzling to life. Could a single, solitary man be my key?

  With a groan, he cradled my face and slowly twined his tongue with mine.

  I shivered with wonder, grasping his broad shoulders, savoring his muscles. My nipples stiffened against the cups of my strapless bra, and my thong grew damp.

  Though tension stole through his body, he kept up his measured seduction.

  I got the impression he struggled to be gentle with me; I didn’t want gentle. I inwardly begged, More . . .

  But he kept up his slow-burn, seething pace.

  More! My fingernails bit into his shoulders; as if I’d flipped a switch in him, ferocity overpowered his tenderness. With a growl against my lips, his hands landed on my ass, yanking me against him.

  I gasped into our kiss—his cock was huge! Was he moving us? My back met a wall.

  He pressed his body against mine and rocked his hips, grinding his erection.

  I shuddered with want, moaning for the thick length trapped between us. I grew even wetter, my pussy aching for it. My head swam. I couldn’t get close enough to him. Rolling my hips against him, I sucked on his tongue—

  “Vice?”

  CHAPTER 3

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  I broke away from that dream kiss. When I pushed against Dmitri’s chest, his muscles flexed to my touch. My greedy fingers decided to clutch at his rigid pecs, and I was about to dip right back into the dream—

  Pete cleared his throat.

  I dropped my hands and shimmied around Dmitri, trying to catch my breath.

  The Russian refused to let go, turning to pull my back against his front so we both faced Pete. I blushed again when I felt Dmitri’s cock between us.

  He draped his arms over me possessively. “Peter, how could you hide a cousin this beautiful from me?”

  Pete must be thinking: But I threw our best and brightest at your feet. With my little purse in his hands, he said, “I had no idea you would hit it off . . . with her.” Obviously. He’d been so shocked to find us kissing, he’d used my family nickname in front of a gull.