The Pakhan’s Secret Baby (Dangerous Daddies)

1. Emory

EMORY

Music pulses through the club in time with the gyrating bodies and flashing lights on the dance floor, as Irina's bridal party liquors up for her devichnik .

It's loud and hot and a little nerve-racking for me, knowing my father banned me from coming here, though he wouldn’t say why.

"This is my night," she shouts close to my ear, pulling me closer.

Her cheeks are already flushed with alcohol.

"And I'm not spending it standing at the bar like two sad aunties waiting for their husbands to come back from the toilet.

" A few of her girls cackle, though I don’t know them all.

Irina and I are best friends—have been since secondary school—but she's got a whole troupe of women here.

I check the time on my phone and chuckle. "We've been here twelve minutes, Irina." But I'm not discounting the drinks we had in the limo on the way.

Her parents supplied the party with more liquor than we'd need for ten devichniki .

She spins me by the shoulders and pushes me toward the dance floor. "Twelve wasted minutes."

We stumble as a horde into the throbbing crowd, finding our way to the beat.

The liquor hums in my blood, loosening me up and making my face warm.

It feels good to be so free and unattended, though without the bodyguards who usually shadow me constantly, I do feel a little exposed.

But tonight I'm just Emory Rostova, friend of the bride, here to dance and celebrate.

"Did you see that man?" Irina asks me, shouting loudly into my ear. I don't know where she's looking, but I feel eyes on me instantly.

My cheeks warm as I spin around, dizzy from drinking, and she nods toward a dark corner. But I still don’t see a man. "Who is that ," she hisses, leaning so close I can feel her breath on my ear.

I take a sip of my drink and shrug. "No idea," I tell her, but slowly my eyes focus on a stranger seated at a booth watching the party.

At first I think he's watching Irina, in her plastic tiara and bright red sash that reads "Bride" diagonally across her chest. But she giggles and jabs me in the ribs as I eye the ink that creeps up the side of his neck.

"He's staring at you like he wants to eat you alive." She pulls back enough to grin at me. "Go talk to him." Her finger jabs my ribs again and I twist away from her, grinning.

But even with the expensive dark suit and those stormy eyes that drink me in, I hesitate. "He's got to be forty, Irina." An older man is an experienced man, which I am not, and I have no intention of making a fool of myself today—or any other day for that matter.

She shrugs. "So?" Then she huffs a sigh. "You're an old biddy, Emory. He's devouring you with his eyes. Can't you see he's interested?"

"Your party," I say, turning away to look her in the eye. "I'm here to celebrate you." Besides, my father will absolutely kill me if I start talking to random men.

He already didn't want me here and I shirked his escort.

If he finds out I came against his will, and alone to boot, and then I spoke to some rich man with tattoos—he'll kill me. No, I can't do it.

" Girl —" She turns me back around before I can even build the argument.

"You're not marrying him. You're dancing in a club and a gorgeous older man is looking at you like you're the only woman in the room.

" She gives my shoulder a push. "Go be a little reckless for once.

There aren't even any bodyguards to slow you down. I'll survive without you for one song."

I roll my eyes, but the vodka is working against my inhibitions, making me want to do what she tells me.

He is gorgeous, but I'm just nervous.

He's way out of my league on a good day, and I'm here to celebrate my best friend, not shack up with a guy twice my age.

I turn my back on him and keep dancing, but I know he's still staring.

Irina floats to the bar where the girls are getting drinks refilled, but I linger toward the outside of the cluster, glancing up at the handsome stranger every so often.

Every time I do, he's still watching me with hungry eyes, which makes my cheeks burn hotter.

And when a waitress shows up carrying a tray and two glasses sent by him, Irina claps her hands together and practically shoves me across the room.

"Now you have to go talk to him," she hisses. "He bought you a drink. It's disrespectful to ignore that, right?"

"God, but what do I say?" I feel totally out of my comfort zone. This isn't at all like me. I don't do this sort of thing. This is what Irina is like, though now that she's getting married I'm sure she'll calm down.

"Just say thanks for the drink?" she slurs. "Go on, Em. You deserve some fun tonight." When she winks at me and gives me another shove, I get the point. I take one of the glasses from the tray, nodding at the waitress, and Irina takes the other. Then I drift that direction, into the darkness.

The crowd thins as I get closer to his table.

The men on either side of him don't move, but their eyes track me the whole way over. Up close my nerves only get worse.

The man isn't just good-looking; he's the sort of guy who makes you forget your own name.

The tattoos on his hands crawl up past his wrists and disappear under dark, rolled sleeves. His eyes are nearly black and hungry with lust.

And with a flick of the wrist, his men step back several feet, giving us privacy.

"Thank you for the drinks," I say, leaning in a little to be heard over the bass. I don't realize it until I watch his eyes, but it gives him a great view of my tits, which makes my cheeks burn even hotter. "That was generous of you."

He tilts his glass and swirls whatever's left in it without taking his eyes off me. "It was selfish," he says in a voice so creamy I want a drink of it. "I wanted you to come over." The way his eyes flow down over my body and back up to my face makes me lean in further, wanting him to speak again.

"Well, it worked." I tuck a curl behind my ear and smile. "You want to dance?"

He smirks. "I don't dance." Then he taps the seat across from him. "Sit."

My body shudders and obeys him without hesitation.

My knees go weak, and I lower onto the leather bench beside him, setting my glass on the table. It feels like it just got a thousand degrees hotter in here.

I flick my hair over my shoulder, and the man's eyes shift, eyebrows rising slowly.

When his hand lifts and brushes hair away from my neck I turn instinctively. He's spotted my tattoo—the only one I have—and he's admiring it.

" Krasivaya ," he says, lightly tracing the ink.

I can't see what he's doing, but I can feel his light touch, and it makes goosebumps rise on my arms. He's so gentle and so complimentary.

"Just like your body..." He pauses, like he's waiting for my name.

I flick a nervous glance at Irina, but she's busy laughing and dancing, ignoring me completely now.

"Emory," I manage, forcing a nervous smile. God, I've never done something so bold in my life, but it's a rush.

"It's beautiful, Emory. Just like you." He leans back, letting his fingertip trail over my shoulder and down my arm.

"Thank you," I mumble, not sure how to respond to that.

To me, beauty isn't what's outside; it's what happens inside of a person, how they treat others, how they express themselves.

My lips are tingling now, body still blazing, and I smile genuinely at him.

He's so gorgeous, and when a gorgeous person says someone is beautiful, people believe them.

"You're a good dancer, Emory. Your body moves like sin." When he scoots closer my heart kicks against my ribs. "Do you come to this club often? I've never seen you."

My heart is hammering as I lick my lips nervously.

This is the reason my father told me not to come here, but so far I don't feel scared or like I'm in any danger.

I feel like my father is trying to hover too much, play helicopter when I'm trying to have some fun.

His warning goes right out the window as I pick up my glass and down the third drink of the night before I smile and set it back on the table.

"This is my first time..." I wait, but he says nothing, so I ask, "What's your name?"

"My name is Rashid," he purrs, in a voice so velvety smooth I would probably follow him right into a den of lions to be devoured alive. God he's hot. I don’t even care that he's twice my age now.

The whiskey probably has more to do with that than anything else, but for once I want to take a risk and live a little, like Irina said.

"Sir," I hear, just as I'm about to say something. I turn to see one of Rashid's men step closer. "We have a small situation," he warns. Something dark flashes through Rashid's eyes before he straightens his tie and nods at his man. Then he turns to me.

"Do you mind?" he asks, letting his fingers dust my arm again. "I'll only be a second. You can wait in my office if you'd like." His eyes flick up to movement behind me, which I catch as I glance over my shoulder.

One of the burly, broad-shouldered men stands there with his hands folded in front of himself.

I'm assuming private security, which means Rashid is very wealthy, though I assumed that based on the suit anyway.

"I should get back to my friend’s devichnik , really." I stand, and Rashid stands with me, reaching up to brush a few strands of hair off my shoulder.

"Such a shame. I had hoped to ask you how a beautiful woman like you has no ring on her finger...

" He clicks his tongue, like he's going to walk away, and my gut screams at me.

It isn't very often that I get away from my father's men to enjoy my life.

And I'm willingly passing on an opportunity to have drinks with a sickeningly wealthy man.

"Okay," I mumble quietly, and he grins.

Rashid says nothing, but the flick of his eyes moves mountains. He walks off with all but one of his guards and the one remaining says, "Come with me."

The guard leads me through a side door, past a velvet rope and down a narrow hallway where the bass drops to a muffled heartbeat.

I feel a bit nervous now, going to this man's office to wait for him while he does God only knows what sort of business.

But the alcohol has me throwing caution to the wind tonight. I decide to take life by the horns and lean in to this adventure.

When the door swings open, it isn't to an office like I expected. I follow the man inside, then pass him as I take in the sight of a full suite.

There is a desk and computer, but there's also a large sprawling bed with black silk sheets and a bottle of vodka on the nightstand next to it.

I turn to protest, but the guard is gone, backing out of the room and closing me in.

"Shit," I hiss, sucking in a breath to clear my head.

This isn't like me.

I'm not a rash thinker; I just let this man get in my head with his compliments.

More so, I let Irina talk me into something a little crazy.

And now what do I do?

I walk back over to the door, thinking of just slipping back out, and a light flicks on, as if motion activated.

It illuminates a painting on the wall to the right of the door that makes my breath catch.

A woman in rich furs and embroidered robes sits defiantly in a sleigh, with snow swirling around her and crowds jeering as she’s dragged through the streets.

Her chin is lifted, eyes blazing with fury. It's Boyarina Morozova —Vasily Surikov’s original.

I know the piece from art history classes—but this can't be here. This painting is worth easily between three and six hundred million rubles.

To think a man like Rashid can afford something so rich in history and value—my hand flutters to my mouth as I lean closer, peering at the painting.

I can almost catch the brush strokes and see the way the paint mixed on the palette.

"You know—“ I whip around to see Rashid standing in the open doorway, closing it behind himself as he enters. "You're more intoxicating than that painting."

"It's a Surikov..." I shake my head, turning back to the art. "How did you...? I mean… where did you…"

I’ve heard this was on display at Tretyakov Gallery in Moscow, and yet this is very much a real painting.

It's not a print or replica.

I'd swear to it being the original.

"You'd be surprised what money can buy." Rashid moves closer.

I hear his feet on the floor, the whisper of his jacket as it's being removed.

Then I feel his hands wrap around my biceps and his breath dust my cheek as he leans over my shoulder.

"But the one thing it can never buy is true communion.You like art?

" he asks softly, and I understand what he means.

Rashid's painting is nothing more than pocket change.

What he wants is the interaction he craves from fellow art lovers like me.

"This is breathtaking."

"You're breathtaking, Emory." I detect a hint of mint on his breath this time, like he freshened up, which means he hopes to kiss me. And having sent me to his "office" that’s more like a lair, I'm fully convinced this man does not have conversation in mind.

I look up at him over my shoulder and see the dark swirl of lust in his eyes again. "You're bold for a man my father's age." Turning, I lift my hand and straighten his tie, then hook a finger behind the knot and pull slowly, loosening it. "Did you ask me here to discuss art?"

"I asked you here, Emory, to do this."

Rashid's hands slide up my arms to cradle my face gently, then he leans in until our lips meet.

The stubble on his jawline scratches my soft skin as he deepens the kiss and parts my lips to drag his tongue across mine.

It steals my breath and has me weak in the knees, and when his arm wraps around my waist, my hands splay over his chest instinctually.

Yes, this is what Irina was talking about.

And no, I am not having second thoughts.