The Master (The Game Maker #2)(16)

Logistics . . . Getting from my apartment to the Seltane took nearly an hour. I’d cleaned today; no way I could forgo a shower. “I can’t be there until nine, and I can’t stay very long. Not that this is a problem with you.” I laughed. “A nanosecond after you nut, you’ll be wondering what I’m still doing there. I’ll start reaching for my clothes as soon as your balls tighten. It’ll be like a fire drill.”

He murmured, “Amazing,” as if he were a safari guide encountering an unknown creature. “Now you ridicule me?”

“Only because you make it so easy.”

“Where have you been that your own agency can’t get in touch with you?”

“Here and there. If you wanted to see me, you should’ve scheduled. Why, you could’ve booked me when I was with you Monday night! Oh, but you were too busy being rude as hell.”

As if I hadn’t spoken, he said, “You were out on another date?”

Surely I imagined that subtle hint of jealousy in his tone. “Remember our no-personal-questions rule?”

Silence. Had I pushed too hard?

“I want you here in the next fifteen minutes,” he finally said. “How much will it cost?”

“Nah, no es posible. In the future, book often and book early.”

Another bout of silence.

At length, he grated, “Wear something sexy.”





CHAPTER 8




At the door to Máxim’s suite, I removed the long lightweight jacket I’d worn to conceal my racy dress.

He’d said sexy, so I’d gone to Ivanna’s, uncaring if I was fifteen more minutes late. She’d brought out the tiniest dress I’d ever seen, gifting it to me because, as she’d put it: “My breasts are too big to wear this since I got enhanced.”

The cream-colored confection was short and backless. Two narrow bands of silk made a halter to cover my tits—somewhat. Side-boob galore. The “skirt” was about eight inches long and displayed the cleft of my ass, but the hem was trimmed in a fringe of slinky strands, making for a peekaboo situation whenever I took a step.

A braided gold cuff on my upper arm, chandelier earrings, and f*ck-me stilettos rounded out the ensemble. I’d worn my hair in a loose knot to show off my bared back.

She’d even given me a beaded purse to go with the dress. Ivanna’s last instructions: “Land him, Cat. Whatever you did—do more.”

What had I done that other women hadn’t? Well, I’d kinda been a bitch at times. I’d refused to “fawn.” I’d insisted on my own pleasure.

Three things I could definitely repeat! With that thought in mind, I pressed the penthouse doorbell.

“You’re late,” he snapped when he answered. “You said nine . . .” He trailed off as he raked his gaze over my body. “Fuck. Me.”

“Hola.” I hoped I sounded casual, but he looked even hotter than last time. He wore a sharp gray suit, with the collar of his crisp white button-down open. “Qué pasa?” I sauntered past him into the living room. Stopped in my tracks.

Another man was here, a giant. Burly and even taller than Sevastyan, this guy had a bald head, a brick-end chin, and a bulldog jaw shadowed with rough stubble.

My heart tripped with panic. “I don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Sevastyan frowned.

“Two men.” Instinctively, I retreated a step—then realized with a start that I hadn’t taken a step toward the door; I’d taken a step closer to Sevastyan.

“Ah. Vasili’s my head of security and right-hand man. Has been for over a decade.”

Relief sailed through me.

Vasili grated something in Russian. Sevastyan responded. I couldn’t understand the words, but there was no mistaking Sevastyan’s do not f*ck with me tone. He looped his arm around me, drawing me close, which seemed to surprise Vasili.

More evidence that Sevastyan didn’t like to touch or be touched? Or he hadn’t in the past?

In English, he said, “Vasili was just leaving.”

The man shot me a cutting look as he passed.

When we were alone, I said, “He certainly doesn’t like me.”

“He’s suspicious because he can’t find information about you. Anyone who comes in contact with me more than once would have an inch-thick dossier by now.”

That sounded risky, but I’d only be here for another hour or so, then adiós.

I set down my jacket and purse. “I don’t appreciate being strong-armed into a date at the last minute. I do have a life, you know.”

“In my experience, most escorts don’t have to be ‘strong-armed’ into dating billionaires.”

“Oh, baby boy”—I gave him an embarrassed for you wince—“you weren’t quite a billionaire today, now, were you?”

His lips curved. “Bad day in the markets. So you looked me up? And you still give me shit?”

Growing serious, I said, “I didn’t appreciate you violating my privacy. I meant what I said Monday night: I wanted my line to stay private.”

“You’re really angry about that? I know something that will cheer you.” He crossed to his briefcase, offering me a stack of hundreds, bound with a currency strap. “Five thousand. I assume you won’t try to haggle for more after our first night.”