The Master (The Game Maker #2)(21)

He canted his head. “I guess that disproves Vasili’s suspicion.”

“Which is?” I reached for my glass, taking a sip.

“He believes you’re a plant, paid for by my enemies or the tabloids to dig up information. I think I’m too proud to tell him that you have very little interest in me.”

I frowned. Edward had made my pride sing with pain. I remembered yelling at him: “How can you be married to a woman you don’t desire? Why won’t you go to counseling with me?” Without looking up from his computer, Edward had said, “I’m so sorry, Ana-Lucía—are you still talking?”

So I told the Russian, “I’m not uninterested, Máxim. But I’m a very private person. The less I ask of you, the less you’ll ask of me.”

He got a stubborn look in his eyes. “I want to know something you’ve never told another client. Something that no one else knows. I won’t let you go until you do.”

What to say? I’m an only child of only children, and everyone’s dead, so I have to look out for myself. For the last three years, a very sick man has been hunting me. He’ll stop at nothing to kill me because I drew blood. So much blood . . .

Yet he’d drawn it first.

I opened my mouth to decline, but Sevastyan said, “Just one thing.”

Was I so starved for interaction, so lonely, that I’d break a rule? Did I need it this badly? As long as I didn’t reveal anything that could be used to track or identify me. Words were leaving my mouth. . . . “I’m obsessed with economics.”

“Slang for money? I kind of figured that out.”

“No, econ. As in, the study of. I read everything about it that I can get my hands on.” I had since I’d taken my first course in the subject at nineteen. The professor had harped on incentives, making me wonder what had incentivized a rich, older, and sophisticated man like Edward to marry me.

My speaking Spanish gave him a headache. He wanted me to diet away my ass. He made fun of the freckles on my nose. He didn’t even like sex with me, never responding to the moves that used to drive guys crazy. Though squeezing my ass had made more than one high school boy spontaneously come, Edward never touched me there.

Only one glaring answer could be supported. He was in it for the money.

Which meant he had none. Which meant he was a con artist.

Which meant my mother had been right about him. I’d discovered him and Julia together not two weeks later.

I faced Sevastyan. “One day I had this epiphany.” My words came faster with my excitement. “I realized that economics are the building blocks of life.”

“I thought that was DNA.”

“Then you need to get more imaginative. On our two dates, you and I have played out several economic scenarios.”

“Explain.” When I hesitated, he said, “I want to hear this.”

“You asked for it,” I muttered, before saying, “By singling out tall, kinky blond escorts, you possess a complete preference, the ability of a consumer to fully identify his desires for services. Although I could argue—based on your reaction to me—that tall blondes are positional goods for you, sought only to increase cachet. When I showed up at your door, you experienced supply shock because an unexpected event changed the supply of a commodity, resulting in a sudden variation in its price. I might have employed profit maximization with you, because I had market power.”

His lips parted.

“And Monday night, when you were wondering why I was still in your presence—though you were done f*cking me—and giving me the same look you’d give a used condom, you’d reached satiation, a level of consumption where the consumer is fully satisfied in a given period of time.”

His dumbstruck look deepened. He didn’t reply, just stared at me.

So I twirled my hair like a bimbo, lisping, “And I like long walkth on the beath.”

Nothing.

“I was joking about that satiation part. Almost mostly.”

He muttered, “Blyad′.” Another awkward silence followed. His relaxation was gone, and I didn’t even know why.

“See, this is why we shouldn’t talk. We do better with body language, no?”

He almost seemed . . . wary. “Do you have a degree?”

“No, I don’t.” This could get dicey.

“But you went to college?”

Bob. “It wasn’t a prerequisite for my current employment.” Weave.

He was about to ask me more, but Tiffani returned with the check, saving the day.

I told him, “I’ll just go run to the ladies’ room.” I grabbed my purse and hurried off, the tassels of my skirt tickling the backs of my thighs.

When I passed the outdoor bar, guys gawked, knowing what I was. Or thinking they did.

In the bathroom, I stared into the mirror. Cat Marín, escort.

A far cry from my onetime goal: Lucía Martinez, tycoon. From an early age, I’d played with the idea of taking over the world, maybe going into politics like my late father. Even as I partied in high school, I’d gotten straight A’s, earning tons of AP credits. I’d planned to graduate college at age twenty-one, with a 4.0 GPA.

Yet the harder I worked, the further I got from my dreams. Which wasn’t exactly incentivizing! At least the GPA was still within reach. All I had to do was make an A on my last final.