Chapter 8 #3
“Let me guess. The hero in the mafia book you’re reading looks exactly like me.
What was his name? Ah, yes, Alessandro.” On purpose, I puffed up, teasing her although I could tell by the look in her eyes that she’d had some very personal and difficult interaction with someone within a crime syndicate.
It was the same look she’d had when studying Ludolf.
Who I suspected had more criminal ties than my family given our switch to more legitimate operations.
“No, the hero in the book is tall, dark, and handsome.” Her answer was followed by a tilt of her head. Another challenge.
“Ouch. You know how to wound a guy.”
Fallon rolled her eyes. “I have a feeling you’ll heal quickly. From what I could tell, you have women falling all over you.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Don’t insult my intelligence.”
She had me laughing especially since I couldn’t tell if she was kidding or being serious. “I’m not going to lie to you about my family. We come from Moscow where life was difficult. You either are the top dog or the dogfood.”
“An interesting analysis.”
“Maybe so, but very true. To answer your question, Jeffrey knows all the dirty little secrets about my family. You can feel free to ask him what they are.”
“Including the location of the dead bodies?” At least she was smiling.
I slid the phone across the table, amused that she made certain our fingers didn’t collide again. “Including all the dead bodies.”
“Hmm… I guess I’ll need to ask him, although you and I won’t be required to see each other again.”
“Required is such a formal term.”
Her grin widened. “But necessary.”
“You really do believe I kill people for a living.”
“I believe that the Bratva stands for criminal activity. I’m certain you’re very sophisticated about what you do and how you do it.”
“So you think Dmitriyev Enterprises couldn’t have achieved success if we hadn’t committed crimes.”
She folded her arms on the table. “I doubt it.”
“Well, you’ll need to trust me that we are completely legitimate.”
“Trust is very difficult when you don’t know someone.”
“A valid point. Let’s see. How do we change that?” I squeezed both limes into my glass, swirling with my finger. She studied me the entire time, the slight smile on her face almost causing the kind of reaction that could terrify her.
It took every ounce of self-control not to slide my hand around the back of her neck, pulling our lips together.
“Why don’t you tell me about your family, since you think you know all about mine.”
Her face immediately clouded, a moment of sadness dancing in her lovely eyes. “I’d rather not talk about that if you don’t mind.”
“Alright. Since you prefer to keep the mystery about yourself, why don’t you start by asking me questions.” Her eyes had given away a moment of pain.
“I’d like to hear you describe yourself. It’s always very telling when a man describes what he thinks to be true of himself.”
I took another sip of my drink, licking the wetness from my glass. As I did, she pursed her lips. In the brief conversation, I could tell she was very unassuming. She had no idea how beautiful she was or if she did, she wasn’t the kind of woman to use her looks to her advantage.
“Alright. I’m a down-to-earth guy and if I told you that I hate the rich and pompous jerks I often encounter in the clubs, would you believe me?”
“Down to earth,” she countered. “I’d be forced to say you were lying.”
“Now, why is that? So you know, I never lie.”
“I’ll try and keep that in mind. Down to earth means someone who prefers wearing well-worn jeans and a grunge tee shirt instead of Armani suits or billowy silk shirts that are not the best attire for extreme humidity.”
“There’s a compliment somewhere in your words. I assure you that the suit I was wearing was Jos. A. Bank, not Armani. And if you caught a glimpse of my wardrobe, you’d think I was homeless.”
“I highly doubt that, Mr. Dmitriyev. You’re worth billions.”
Chuckling, I could tell she was doing everything in her power to keep me at arm’s length.
Good for her. “Yes, I am, but that doesn’t mean I don’t prefer jeans and cowboy boots.
For the record. This shirt is made of cotton.
I believe so anyway. I admit I didn’t look when I picked it up at T.J. Maxx.”
Her cough was followed by taking a sip of her drink. “You shop at T.J. Maxx?”
“Absolutely. We have one close to where I live.” I was telling her a little white lie, although I had shopped at the store before.
“Something I’d need to see with my own eyes.”
“Perhaps we can make that happen. Maybe I’ll extend your duties, so you return me to Las Vegas.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m otherwise engaged.”
She was quite adorable when she tried to draw a line in the sand.
My cock was finding the thin material of my trousers highly uncomfortable.
“You’re currently on a leave of absence from your job with American Airlines.
Surely, you can take a couple additional days.
I’ll pay you double what you’re making.”
Her eyes flashed with both annoyance and clear anger. Plus, a split second of fear. “I’m not for sale, Mr. Dmitriyev. I know you might find that hard to believe, but I have scruples.”
“I wasn’t insinuating you didn’t.”
Sighing, she looked away. “You’re like every other rich man who thinks money talks and that’s all that matters.”
“Don’t make assumptions.”
She took another sip of her wine and I concentrated on the way her tongue swept across the narrow glass rim. “Fair enough.”
The moment of silence was killing me.
“You don’t like the plane?”
“The craft is beautiful, the instrumentation top notch. I can tell it was recently renovated and money was spent on making the jet as safe as possible.” Her statement was perfunctory, but I could tell she was holding something back. Why not push her as far as she would go?
“So what’s the issue?”
She laughed as if I was making a joke. “The art reminds me of some I’ve seen for rock stars and stamped on Ganja planes.”
“Ganja planes.” I was more amused than I’d been in a very long time.
“Yes, Mr. Dmitriyev. You certainly must know what I’m talking about. Drug runners. They adore putting art on their planes, which makes them dead giveaways for the ATF. And for some really bad men who control the ocean waters.”
“Bad men.”
“Yes,” she breathed. “Something you should know a good deal about.”
Now she was toying with me, pushing my buttons since she’d known I was purposely pushing hers.
She had no idea the fire she’d lit underneath my cheap cotton shirt.
“Ganja plane. I almost like the representation.”
“Somehow, I knew you would.” She’d leaned forward, daring to lick her bottom lip once again. Did she have any idea the subtle move was driving me crazy?
I took a deep breath, placing my glass on the table. For a moment, we remained silent as I studied the look in her eyes, admiring the spunk while sensing she had more experience with bad guys than she wanted anyone to discover.
That boosted the craving to learn more about her.
Every. Little. Thing.
Inside and out.
I had to start somewhere.
So I did.
Ignoring the bells and whistles, I slipped my hand around the back of her neck as I’d envisioned before, pulling us both to the center of the table.
Then I crushed my lips over hers, grinning inwardly from her moan of intense desire.