by Nic Saint
She eyed him dubiously, wondering if he was pulling her leg. “How do you know?”
He suddenly grinned. “They’re Russian. I overheard their conversation.”
She hit his shoulder amicably. “You cheat!”
He grabbed her wrist and suddenly she found herself pulled in close to him, his face only an inch away. Her eyes widened as she picked up his musky scent, his dark eyes boring into hers. She noticed to her surprise they weren’t black at all. They were a very dark brown, with flecks of gold, shimmering dangerously. For a moment, she thought he would kiss her, and the anticipation had her heart patter skittishly. Then, as abruptly as he’d caught her, he released her.
Trying to restore her equanimity by pushing at her blond strands, she blurted out, “What did you think about me, the first time you saw me?”
He studied her carefully, and she blushed as his eyes seemed to penetrate to the very core of her being, laying bare her soul and all her thoughts, hopes and dreams.
Finally, he said, remarkably softly, “I thought you were very beautiful, Dora.”
Gad! He did have a way with words, didn’t he? “Thank you,” she said, feeling something churn in her belly.
“I chose you for your beauty,” he then added quite unnecessarily, spoiling the moment. He shrugged. “And because you look like Ariel Cole.”
Her mood fell. “Thanks for reminding me,” she muttered.
“Don’t mention it,” he returned with a grin, then stuffed the remainder of his ice cream in his mouth and nodded appreciatively. “American ice cream is good.” He stood and grabbed her arm. “Come. We walk.”
With a groan, she rose.
She wondered about Ariel Cole, Nathan Callaway’s daughter. All she knew was that she was supposed to go on this press junket herself. Something had gone wrong with the works, apparently, for she’d been commissioned to fill the girl’s shoes. She’d seen her picture, of course, and had been ordered to model herself after it.
The girl was gorgeous, and for a single wistful moment, she wondered where she was at this moment. Probably at home with her own Russian husband, who was a lot nicer than Roman Loginovsky.
So he’d chosen her for her looks, huh? Swell. He probably didn’t even like her. She was just a nobody to him. Some two-bit actress he could use to his advantage and then discard when her usefulness ran out. Suddenly, she felt a depression setting on. The same kind of depression she always got when she was between jobs. Or when a critic annihilated her in the morning papers.
With a sigh, she asked, “What do you want to do next?”
Roman glanced over. “Empire State Building.”
He’d taken her hand in his, and to her dismay, she felt a thrill of anticipation at the feel of her small hand in his large mitt. Don’t go there, Dora, she told herself. Don’t even think about him that way. He’s a big, bad Russian, and before you know it, he will be out of your life again.
“Tell me about Wallisburg,” he asked, and such was the power of his personality, that before she could stop herself, she was telling him things she hadn’t even told Nikosj. About how she used to play in her grandfather’s orchard as a kid. How all through summer, the neighborhood kids used to roam the fields and forests surrounding Wallisburg. How she would sometimes arrive home all dirty, with scraped knees and torn clothes, but happy as a clam after playing outside all day. And gradually, as she told him what life was like for Ella Tackelburg, her mood lifted. She didn’t know why he would even be interested in her boring life, but the fact that he listened without interruption, started a soft trill in her heart. A tiny buzz that spread and bloomed like a warm comfort around her chest.
It had been a long time since she told anyone about her childhood, which had been happy to a degree, and now that this stranger unlocked the vault of her memories, she found herself incapable of stemming the flow.
And he didn’t seem to mind one bit, listening attentively all the while, with only a small comment thrown in, or a question to clarify some detail.
Finally, as they strode into the cool lobby of the Empire State Building, she almost felt like a newlywed, walking hand in hand with her new husband.
Too bad her husband wasn’t really her husband at all. And with a pang of concern, she noted she was starting to enjoy this brutal man’s company. This notorious Russian enforcer. This killer.
Then they were riding the elevator up to the eighty-sixth floor, and she forgot all about his blood-spattered resumé, and noted with beating heart that in spite of the fact they were now alone, he still hadn’t released her hand.
She found she didn’t mind one bit.
CHAPTER 3
“There’s nothing I can do about that, miss,” said the little man with the grizzly beard plaintively. “Didn’t you see the sign? Didn’t anybody stop you downstairs?” He brought his hands to his gray mop of hair and muttered, “Oh, dear, oh dear, oh dear.”
The man, who looked like an elderly janitor, was staring at Dora with an owlish look on his lined face. They’d just arrived on the eighty-sixth floor when he’d come running up to them, hands waving frantically, eyes wild and troubled, looking like Gandalf the Grey spotting Balrog of Moria on the horizon.
First she’d thought he was some crazy person. Then he’d said the observation deck was closed for repairs, and could they come back in an hour or so. Well, that explained why they’d ridden the elevator alone. And, now that she came to think of it, why they hadn’t paid for a ticket. Oops!
“Just slip him some money,” she suggested to Roman, who’d followed the scene in stony-faced silence.
“Not,” he grumbled eloquently. Then, when she leveled a pleading glance at him, handed her a wad of cash and allowed her to peel off a note for Gandalf the Janitor.
It did little to appease the wrinkled old man, for his lips turned down into a look of disapproval, and his beard waggled. “You can’t bribe me, honey. This place is locked down for tourists, and no matter how much money you’re prepared to throw at me, I can’t let you go out there. Too dangerous!”
She peeled off a second note, but the old guy still wouldn’t budge. Finally, exasperated, she pressed the whole wad of cash into his hands. With an annoyed grunt, he handed it back. “Lady! Please! I’m not that kind of guy!”
“Oh, yes, you are!” suddenly boomed Roman. He’d been hovering nearby while Dora conducted the business transaction, but now he crossed the distance with the guard and towered over him, easily dwarfing the little man.
“I am personal friend of Mayor!” he thundered to the visibly terrified janitor. The graybeard stared up at the colossus now standing wide-legged before him, face a thunderstorm, eyes boring into his, hands working as if they were itching to grab him by the lapels and personally throw him eighty-six stories to the street below if he didn’t allow them passage.
“A friend of the mayor, huh?” squeaked the janitor with trembling lips, his red-rimmed eyes watering.
“Personal friend,” corrected Roman. “I am important businessman. In New York only one day. My good friend the mayor told me visit Empire State Building. Finest building in this fine city. I know he very disappointed when I tell him njet because…” He scanned the man’s name sign. “…Norbert stop me.”
“Yeah, I can see how His Honor might be disappointed,” agreed Norbert.
“Norbert,” continued Roman, bringing his face now so close to the janitor that he could have swallowed him in one gulp. Somehow, the scene reminded Dora of Jonah and the whale. “Do you want me to call mayor? Would it make you feel better?”
“No, it sure wouldn’t, sir,” rasped Norbert. “In fact I’m sure the mayor has better things to do than talk to little old me.” In an impulsive gesture, he rattled a ring of keys, his eyes still locked onto Roman’s searing gaze. “I, erm, I, ah, perhaps can make an exception? For a personal friend of His Honor, I mean. Wouldn’t want to disappoint the big man, right?”
Roman shook his head slowly. “No you would not.”
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Norbert swallowed convulsively, and Dora watched with interest how his Adam’s apple gamboled erratically, like a puppy on its first foray into the big, wide world.
Roman finally extended a large coal shovel of a hand. Norbert jerked back automatically, seeming to think he was going to feel the wrath of the mayor’s personal friend right on the schnoz, but all Roman did was place his hand on the man’s shoulder and give it a gentle squeeze.
Well, gentle was perhaps an understatement, as Norbert winced visibly, then Roman turned him around so he was facing the door he’d been standing sentry for, and he nervously selected a key, then obediently shoved it into the lock.
“Good man,” grunted Roman as the door swung open. He patted the guard on the back, which made the little guy’s knees buckle, then held out this hand for Dora.
She gracefully placed her own hand in it and followed her escort out. Mouthing ‘Thank you’ as she passed a frightened looking Norbert, she couldn’t help but smile at the whole interlude.
Once they were out on the platform, she tripped up beside Roman, and said, “That was amazing, Roman! The way you handled that!”
Before she could finish her sentence, he’d suddenly folded her into his arms, and before she knew what was happening, he’d leaned in and was placing a kiss on her lips. Eyes wide in astonishment, she felt the heat rise to her cheeks as her lips were crushed under his demanding mouth, and when his tongue slipped inside, she closed her eyes, and was lost to the world, her body pliant against his, her breath coming in quick bursts, and her heart racing at the sudden proximity with this hulking male specimen.
Her arms, which had feebly clutched at the air, now wrapped around his sturdy frame, and then she was clinging to him, their lips connecting with a heat and a yearning she hadn’t felt before. When eagerness gave way to red-hot desire, she gave as well as she took, and the dance of their strokes was like the hot caress she’d been promised by all the looks he’d leveled at her. All the times he’d placed his hand to the small of her back. All the nights she’d fallen asleep thinking of him.
Even though he was her husband only in name, something had been brewing beneath the surface of their casual relationship, and now that the lid had been blown off by his unexpected move, she knew something had shifted.
She sighed when finally he broke the kiss, and her eyes fluttered as she gazed into his dark depths. He was hard and unyielding, yet surprisingly warm and passionate. She briefly whispered his name, surprised by her own response, and when he smiled, her world lit up.
“Wow, Roman. That was—”
“Something you owed me,” he interrupted in a low voice.
“Owed you?” she murmured, not comprehending.
“When the priest said, ‘You may kiss the bride,’ I never took possession.”
She bridled at this, struggling against him. “What?”
His frown darkened, and his next words rocked her to the core. “I will have full promise of marriage, Dora.”
“What are you talking about?” she cried out, pressing her hands against his chest in feeble protest.
His eyes darkened. “The wedding night. I will take possession of my bride before the week is through.”
CHAPTER 4
“No! I will have none of it!”
She stomped away from him, her heart heavy and her dress suddenly too flimsy and tight. If he wanted a girl to have his way with, he should have picked a different ‘wife’. Not Dora Liverpool! Two hundred thousand dollars wasn’t nearly enough to extend this kind of ‘service’!
Abruptly, she turned around, and almost bumped into him. As she faltered, he took a firm grip on her shoulders. “I’m not that kind of girl, Roman!”
A slight smile played about his lips, as if he found the whole scene highly amusing. Well, she would give him amusing. With a deft kick, she planted her foot against his shin. It didn’t seem to trouble him in the least. She, on the other hand, lost her balance as she struck out, and almost toppled over.
They were out on the balcony now, with a marvelous view of New York City through the wire-mesh fence. But instead of the famous skyline, all she could see were the mocking eyes of her husband as he held her in an iron grip.
She would show him! She would…
Feeble protests whirled around her brain as her indignation grew. He would have her in his bed, huh? He would have his wedding night before the week was over? Well, she’d had men who’d groped her, and tried to have their way with her before. A girl working in the theater had plenty of those kinds of fellas, all men who thought that being an actress automatically equated to being an easy lay.
“I’m an actress, Roman. Not a prostitute!” she finally managed to vociferate, once the anger had dissipated enough she could formulate a complete sentence.
“I know that,” he said, giving her an earnest look.
She looked up at him. Oh, no. She could handle anger and mockery. She wasn’t ready for earnest.
“You are my wife now, Dora.” He was still holding her, and the proximity did little to ease her discomfort or quell the strange feelings churning in her gut.
“I didn’t think being your wife included sexual favors,” she offered, bravely raising her chin.
“Not favors,” he countered, too coyly for her taste.
“No volunteering will induce me to sleep with you, Roman. So simply put the idea out of your head right now. It won’t happen.”
For the first time, his lips curled up into a full smile, and the effect was devastating. If his dark eyes and his frown hadn’t been enough to disconcert her, his smile almost knocked her over. “Oh, but it will, Dora. I mean to have you, you know.”
She started to say something, but so many thoughts jumbled through her mind all at the same time, nothing intelligible came out. Then, when finally she cried out, “Never in my life!” suddenly his lips were on hers again, and whatever thoughts she had, fled as the heat rose inside her. And then he was gripping her closer to him, her body molding to his, and the soft whimper that formed at the back of her throat was her body’s admission of a fact her mind hadn’t yet grasped: he’d already won the battle.
Clinging to him, she opened her lips, and then they were dueling, not with words this time, but with their tongues, and both his soft strokes and the gentle pressure of his arms around her induced her to surrender to his insistent touch. The overpowering sensation of his male dominance and sexual attraction burned through her, rendering her powerless.
When his hand snuck down and cupped her breast through the sheer silkiness of her dress, her breath caught, and she yearned for more, her skin eagerly responding with heightened awareness to the urgency of his touch. Hot and insistent on her flesh, Roman’s hands took what they wanted and any resistance was futile and nonexistent.
Slipping his hand down the front of her dress, they were flesh on flesh, his fingers splayed around her nipple as his mouth devoured her, sending her plummeting into a torrent of heat. She whispered his name—the name of this mystery husband of hers—this dark and dangerous man she hardly knew yet wanted with a devastating desire.
And when finally he released her, she stood panting, as if she’d just run the New York Marathon instead of simply being kissed by her husband.
His arm never leaving her waist, he walked her up to the side of the platform, and as she stared absently out across New York City, dazed and confused and pushing at her disheveled clothes and her disarrayed hair, she thought in vain for an excuse for the wantonness of her behavior, and the eagerness with which she’d thrown herself into his arms.
She was an attractive woman, with no lack of male attention. Though it was perhaps too much to say she could have any man she wanted, she’d never had trouble finding a date. So what induced her to lose control like this? Why would she feel so attracted by this notorious Mafia soldier?
Was it the fact that he was dangerous? Did this perhaps add to his fascination? She simply couldn’t believe how a sensible woman l
ike her would fall for a man like him. While all her instincts screamed that she should stay away from him, her body had just betrayed her. Though her mind yelled no, her body’s response had been undeniable.
As she swallowed and clutched at a measure of composure, unable to find the words to steer their conversation back into the realm of normalcy and the easy companionship they’d attained these last few days, she couldn’t find any that wouldn’t steep her in painful embarrassment.
She was a harlot, after all. Two hundred thousand dollars had turned her into a tramp and had induced her to throw away the last vestiges of dignity. Shamefaced, her cheeks glowing as if lit by a fire within, she groaned silently. Instead of running away from this man as fast as her legs could carry her, she’d practically swooned in his arms like a young virgin.
“Nice view,” Roman commented as if nothing had happened.
“Glad you like it,” she reciprocated, the only view entrancing her his sharp hawklike profile and the lips that had just reduced her to a pile of quivering jelly.
Physical attraction was a devious thing. A very dangerous thing.
Then she caught his intent stare.
“What?”
“You missed spot,” he rumbled.
Following his gaze, she noticed her boob was still uncovered.
“Oh,” she muttered absently. Tucking her ample breast back into her bra, she vowed never to let this man under her skin like that again—or into her dress for that matter.
“I like this New York,” he commented. He gestured at the city that lay beneath him like some king of old gesturing at his kingdom. “I like America.”
“Good for you.”
The iciness of her tone had him look up, and he gave her a grin, then before she could stop him, had cupped her chin in his hand, forcing her to look into his laughing eyes. “Cheer up. That was only beginning.”
