by K. M. Liss
Two Can Play
K.M.Liss
Copyright Notice
Copyright © K.M. Liss 2014.
XSEX books
All Rights Reserved.
This book is sold subject to conditions that it cannot by way of trade be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the author’s prior consent, in any form or cover, other than which it is published.
Disclaimer : This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it, while at times based on real figures, are purely the work of the author’s imagination.
Thanks & Acknowledgements
Love and thanks to my family and friends, for believing in me and encouraging me to write my little heart out. And thanks to my dear editor Marion Archer for her snipping and pruning and inspiring input. makingmanuscripts.com
Two Can Play
Oh shit! I'm gonna get soaked. It's a monsoon.
The avalanche of rain sweeps to the ground all around me as I exit the airport and shoot across the forecourt to grab the one and only taxi waiting for a fare.
As I reach out my hand to open the door, another hand beats me to it by a split second.
I look at the tattooed arm in disgust.
“This one's mine, honey,” he says with obvious pleasure at having won the race I didn't know I was in.
“What an asshole!” I grind out, fuming, as the heavy rain buckets down, soaking my hair and clothes, forming a raging river down my arms.
“Sorry, but I'm in a real hurry,” he explains, swinging the door open wide, slinging a carry-on in the back, and jumping inside.
“Where are you off to?” I ask, holding the door open, too desperate for a ride to be proud.
“Dorsoduro,” he replies reluctantly.
“Oh good, me too. Mind if I share the ride?” And before he can answer, I'm in there.
I shove my bright purple mini suitcase on his lap as I try to get my soaked self comfy. Not an easy task, I soon discover. My clothes are sticking to me, everywhere.
Ughh...vile.
He shoves it back at me before I'm even half done.
“Calle Chiesa, per fav...,” I start to announce to the cab driver.
“Calle Lanza,” he says, interrupting my request, with a pointed look.
“La signorina è prima.” The young Italian cabbie explains my address is first, setting off through the waterfall of rain. I smile to myself at my little victory.
I take a sly look at the asshole, as he slouches grumpily on the seat in his faded ripped jeans and black Jay Z T-shirt which is emblazoned with a rather crude slogan.
Yummy looking asshole anyway... Jesus! Mr. Sexy Someone or what.
Long, layered, dark hair, beautiful eyes, completely fit. And those stunning tattoos are doing things to me. I want to see the rest of them, the ones beneath the clothes. I can't help it. I'm a real tattoo junkie. Not that I have any myself, but I love to see men covered in them. Tastefully covered, that is. I can't stop myself staring and he catches me doing it, and stares back pointedly. I see something dark flash in his eyes, and then he smiles briefly at me, revealing a gorgeous set of whites.
Despite myself, I'm past his bad manners all of a sudden.
He's seriously hot.
“On vacation?” he asks politely.
“Not really,” I reply.
“Working?”
“Not really.”
“Got a name?”
“Yeah, what about you?” I smile mischievously.
“I'm Aaron,” he replies, with a quick smile back.
“And I'm Katrina.” I put him out of his misery and answer his question properly. “I've got a little place here,” I continue. “Fancied some downtime.”
It's kind of the truth, although all my life consists of is downtime. Serious downtime. I could do with some uptime now and then to even the balance.
“My family live here. I'm visiting,” he says, giving me some heavy-lidded roving eye, and a slip of tongue over his lip.
I don't believe it! Did he just eye-fuck me after our thirty-second acquaintance?
I ought to take it as a compliment, I suppose.
I feel heat begin to rise inside me.
“Staying long?” I ask nosily.
“That depends,” he replies slowly, his eyes sweeping over me yet again. The half smirk he's wearing seems to be appealing to my baser side.
“On what?” I ask.
“On a few things.” His eyes are riveted to my mouth. I think he's spotted my tongue stud. I suddenly shiver with a surge of lust and everything clamps up incredibly tight inside my panties.
I'm shocked at my response. It takes my breath away. I haven't felt such strength of reaction to anyone like this for a long, long time. But then again, there's a lot to react to. The looks are hot enough on their own, but his voice is equally appealing. The cool, deep tone of his accent has a croaky little catch to it that's so damn sexy. I'm guessing New York, but not completely sure. Wherever he's from, he's pressing all my hot buttons. Actually he's thumping them really hard.
“Lovely weather for it, anyway.” I laugh, covering for myself while I get my surprisingly rampant hormones in check.
“I like the rain,” he says, gazing at the water cascading down the side window.
“But not enough to wait for the next cab though,” I point out accusingly, soaking up his sexy bedraggled locks and wet arms. A water droplet hangs on the end of his hair and I want to reach out and touch it.
No one could possibly look any hotter than he does after being soaked.
“Yeah, real sorry about that, but I'm running late for something important,” he replies, his eyes skimming over my head and hair, taking in my once artfully messy, and now somewhat ruined, dark blond bun.
I smooth a few dripping strands back from my face and give my bun a squeeze. I immediately wish I hadn't. The cold water squelches down my neck and back, making me shudder involuntarily.
“Something really important, eh? And what might that be, Aaron?” I probe.
“The reading of my father's will.”
“God, no.... Your father's just died?”
“A month ago now...he was ill for a while though. It was kinda expected.”
“I'm so sorry to hear about that.” I offer my condolences in a soft tone of voice.
He takes a deep breath and looks down at his hands, lacing his fingers together.
“Yeah well, shit happens, we all have to go sometime, don't we?” he mutters quietly.
“I suppose the reading of his will isn't something you'd want to miss, is it?” I concur.
“No, and in less than half an hour I might even be contesting it.” He smiles at me, wryly.
“You really think you'll need to do that?” I ask in surprise.
“No idea. But it pays to think the worst. Life's not so disappointing then.” He chuckles deeply, somewhere low in his throat and chest.
The sound is pure pleasure to my eardrums.
“I hope it all goes well for you, anyway.” I smile sweetly and kindly with a demure bat of my eyelashes. I can do sweet and kind when I try. And it makes a change from my normal snarky attitude.
“Yeah, so do I, and thanks. Look, give me a call if you're at a loose end and want some company. I'll probably be around for a week or so.” He gets a card out of his holdall and passes it to me.
I grab it like I've been offered the secret to eternal youth.
Way too fast girl...cool it.
“I've already got some things planned,” I lie, trying to force some coolness into my voice. “But yeah, I'd like that. And by the way, my friends call me Kate.”
I hope he appreciates the honor of being elevated to friend status so quickly.
A few minut
es later we're there. I tap the cabbie’s shoulder and point, and he pulls up at my place.
It's not at all showy.
No one would ever know I'm a multimillionaire based on this humble Venetian address.
That's the whole point.
I turn to face him, for a quick eyeball feast before I get out.
“Nice meeting you, Kate,” he says, staring at my boobs, which I'm sure are on very clear display under my soaked and clingy white T-shirt.
“And you too, Aaron. It's been a real pleasure,” I reply, my eyes zoning in on his crotch.
I can do some perfectly filthy looks when I'm in the mood.
I open my purse to pay the cabbie some of the fare.
“It's okay, I've got it, don't worry,” Aaron says, with a hand over mine and a hot smile.
“Oh, thanks. That's nice of you.” I smile in return.
Well that was sweet and unexpected.
I struggle out with my mini case, slamming the door shut, and rushing to the doorstep fast, to avoid the heavy deluge. I send a little wave in his vague direction. As I stand under the shelter searching for the keys in my purse, suddenly the cab door opens, and he leans out.
“Hey, Kate. I was wondering…would you like some dinner with me tonight?” he shouts through the rain.
“Sorry, way too tired. And I've got a date tomorrow, so, some other time maybe?” I shout back. I smile to myself and do a little dance of joy in my head. He's obviously interested.
“Shame. Well, you've got my number anyhow. See ya sometime.” With that he shuts the door and the cab pulls away with a swoosh.
Realization hits me with a thump.
Oh shit! Why the hell did I say all that? I only needed to be a little cool, not arctic fricking freezing... Damn, damn and damn! Tonight AND tomorrow? Now I've got to do two nights solo, stuck indoors a la moi.
I'm such a dumbass at times. But then again, everything about me is a disaster. I've even got a hurricane named after me.
I leave a trail of self-destruction wherever I go.
Not that it's all my fault. I wasn't adequately trained as a person. Both parents were missing in action. Well, not missing exactly; I knew where they were. But they were absent for the best part of my formative childhood years.
My dear and wonderful parents.
Russian oil-billionaire father, Alexi Strovovich, and Las Vegas croupier mother, Bambi Denton. They never lived together. I was the product of their quick fling. I'm not sure how Mom got pregnant with me, as she's a savvy woman and smart about things like contraception. But however I was conceived, at twenty-six years of age, she delivered me into the world.
After I was born neither of them really wanted to be hands-on parents, so money babysat me instead. My mom passed me off to a procession of baby-minders and carers all through my school years. She worked nights and slept days so I hardly ever saw her.
And as for dad...well...he lives in Russia.
Very hands off.
As well as lacking in critical personal developmental skills, I can be really funny.
And I don't mean I'm a comedian. I can be odd at times. Deliberately prickly and difficult.
It comes from not trusting people, I guess. And there are a few good reasons why I don't trust people.
But the main one is Ryan.
A fairly recent reason
He scarred me for life. Double scarred me.
Because of what he did, when I caught him in his lie. Something I could never tell anyone about. I'm so ashamed. I know I shouldn't be. It's not my fault. But he ruined me. Violated and demeaned me.
That was fifteen months ago, and I remember every horrific second of it.
I try not to think about it, I don't want to, but sometimes it gets stuck fast in my head, like the worst recurring nightmare.
Since then I've not been able to get close to any man at all.
The closest I've got is one kiss with Marco. And that ended in disaster.
He's a total dream of a guy, a waiter, at a cafe not far from here.
I was a little trashed and he walked me home on the last night of my stay, three months ago.
I started what should have been a brief goodnight and thank-you kiss on my doorstep. But he got way too heated with me, and I pushed him away. Much too roughly.
I wasn't ready for any intense physical stuff.
My mind exploded in the worst way.
He was hurt and upset by my massive overreaction.
Things were said. Bad and hurtful things. It wasn’t a good way to part company.
I was shocked by the way I reacted, in truth.
I know I need to offload all this somehow, so I can heal, but I just can't.
After I change my clothes I go into my kitchen and put the coffee machine on for a quick caffeine hit. Getting the dried coffee creamer out of the cupboard, I stir a few heaped spoonfuls into the strong brew, and add some sugar, my mind wandering back to Marco and those harsh words we had. It was all so unpleasant and unnecessary.
I settle myself in, going through the pile of junk mail that has accumulated since I last visited.
Lucia, my housekeeper, keeps the place clean for me, picks up the mail, and sends the important looking things to me, just in case something needs to be done in between visits.
There's nothing worth keeping in the paper mountain, so I dump the whole lot in the trash. Italians don't seem to have heard of recycling, not in Venice in any case.
I love it here. Bella Venezia. I took a holiday here with a friend during my degree years, and later bought this small hideaway for myself. It's in a residential part of the city, full of traditional old buildings, off the tourist beat. I retreat to it every so often, for a week here and there, to escape who I am. And who I am is the Kate Denton. The super-rich girl, who, unfortunately, attracts the wrong type of guys like bees to a honeypot in L.A. Here I'm just Kate, plain old anonymous Kate. I hardly know anyone here, apart from the waiters at Lorenzo's café, the guys at the bakery, Luigi and Mario, my cleaner Lucia, and my hairdresser, Rachelle. I keep my real self to myself. Marco doesn't have a clue who I am. He thinks I work in a bank. That's what he assumed from my vague description of my “job” and I didn't correct his misassumption.
I take in my surroundings with pure enjoyment. It's such a sweet apartment. Very tastefully done out, if I do say so myself. And all my own work. I'm a closet painter and decorator at heart. There's nothing like the smell of paint and the excitement of a big roller to slap it on with.
I really know how to live, don't I? I smile to myself.
It's cream and pale blue throughout, with a sizable bedroom sporting a massive, white, four-poster bed. It sits proudly, center stage, complete with cream silk drapes. It makes me smile every time I look at it.
It's my little fantasy. A horrendously expensive luxury I awarded myself one afternoon when I was strolling around, and then shopping on the Internet.
This quaint and feminine apartment is a world apart from my penthouse back in L.A. That's floor-to-ceiling glass windows, black marble bathroom, red leather sofas, and sleek fittings. My L.A. apartment is equally beautiful, but modern and very cosmopolitan in style.
Lucia has thoughtfully left a coordinating white and blue arrangement of fresh flowers in a vase on the dining table for me. I stand and finger the petals and leaves. They feel sleek and velvety. Like moist skin.
Remembering moist skin, I look for the card Aaron gave me. I spot it lying on the console table by the door. I pick it up and stare at it, teasing myself.
Aaron Alexander Garcia.
Mmmm, pretty hot name, for a pretty hot guy.
I wonder what he'd make of mine...Katrina Eloise Denton-Strovovich. I drop the paternal surname to keep the Russian oil billionaire connection under wraps, just in case it arouses the wrong type of interest. Kidnappers and whoever else. No one knows who my dad is exactly. Not even my friends. I'm very vague about him.
As I stare at his card, and rub the embos
sed print with my thumb, I wonder if his father's will needed contesting? He should be in the know by now.
What shall I do with myself? I have nothing much planned. At all. Normally this is not an issue, as I can cope very well with being on my own when it just happens that way. But I've stupidly and deliberately done this to myself. That fact seems to make a substantial difference to my mood. I could be getting ready to go out on a dinner date, or at least looking forward to one tomorrow.
Maybe, if it ever stops raining cats and dogs, I'll drop by the cafe and see if Marco's around.
I need to rebuild that bridge, and soon.
He's a nice guy, at least I hope he is, and I want to get back in his good books.
My mom sends me a text, in her usual best-friend style.
Got a special date with Harry. v.special :) :)
My mom is very chatty, but difficult to converse with. Verbally hyperactive. She doesn't seem to listen to me properly. It makes for a very one-way conversation at times. For that reason I prefer our text chats to calls because she has to read, think and reply. It all flows better between us.
Either way, I usually get way too much information for a daughter. Her love and sex life is not something I wanna hear anything about. Especially as hers seems to be going with a bang, and mine was ruined a year ago.
Great. Have fun, B good :) I reply.
She's been interested in him for months and dating him for a fortnight. Another oil millionaire. That's number three, I think. She's always meeting the rich and famous through her job. She loves it and wouldn't give it up if she won the oil millionaire lotto six times over. Not that she needs the money. Dad made sure she was very well provided for financially. Money-wise, my dad is an extremely generous man. With his kind of wealth, he can afford to be.
Perhaps I should become a croupier in Las Vegas too? I think to myself, whimsically. It would be nice to meet someone wealthy whose intentions I don't have to worry about. Someone I could relax and be myself with. It's a shame all the rich guys I know leave me cold or are already attached. Not that I really want a man. At least, not at the moment. I couldn't cope with a real boyfriend. Intimacy and I are a long way from being friends..
