The Master (The Game Maker #2)(33)

“Why weren’t you?”

I stopped pacing, deciding to reveal part of the truth. “I haven’t had sex in a long time. You’re my first client.”

“If you wanted me to believe you were a novice, then you shouldn’t have acted like such a professional. When you spread your legs to me, purring, ‘How do you like variety now, querido?’ I wondered if even I might be out of my league with an escort like you.”

“You are my first! Ask Ivanna! She’ll tell you. She sent me here in her place because she had a reaction to Botox, and I needed the money. I almost backed out.”

He gave a bitter laugh. “You mean your first client—in Miami? I hear from your agency that you’re a pro from Tampa! Not to mention that Anthony had you booked into infinity before I bought you.”

“You can’t buy me; I was never for sale!” Spanish left my lips, every vile curse word I knew. “If you didn’t want to get trapped, then why did you come in me? Why not protect yourself?”

“I wanted no barriers. Which I discussed with you in advance! I should’ve known something was off when you didn’t try to charge me extra!”

Burn. I balled my hands into fists. “What will it take to make you see reason?”

“Your name.”

I sucked in a breath. “Jamás.” Never.

“Then prepare for a stay.”

“How long?”

“In my world, when someone tries to steal from another, they are punished severely.”

In my world too. At least with Julia.

“You’ll remain until I’m satisfied you’ve paid for your greed.”

Sevastyan would probably get tired of me in a day or two, tops. The novelty would wear off. But if it didn’t, the most my captivity could last was another ten days. He was leaving town, then going back to Russia.

To bad weather, Cat. On the bright side, I was safer from Edward here than practically anywhere. Now that I was stuck in Miami till New Year’s, the tower began to feel like a bastion.

Never would I have imagined that staying with a Russian mobster and his armed henchmen would be my safest play. Not only that—I’d be staying in the most expensive hotel room in Miami. No creepy supe rubbing himself while leering at me. No cans of cheap soup, leaking roofs, and rough thrift-store sheets.

My biggest fear had been that I would fall for Sevastyan because the sex was so great. Now that he was showing his true colors, that wouldn’t be a problem.

I narrowed my eyes at him and thought, Oh, no, Ruso! Don’t throw me in this briar patch!

I decided then that this would be my retreat—in both senses of the word. I’d bide my time and recharge. This problem had an endpoint to it, was on its way to being settled. Which meant I could handle it.

“It looks like you’ve got me,” I said airily.

He frowned at my change in demeanor. Sevastyan had just acquired a “prisoner,” and the joke was on him.





CHAPTER 15




I sat in my new room—adjoining his, naturally—trying to recall more. No matter how drunk I’d gotten, I wouldn’t have told him to come in me; was he making it up as an excuse to keep me?

Right before the shit had hit the fan earlier, he’d been pissed that I’d had other things to do, supposing I was about to go away with another man. Then all of a sudden Sevastyan had a reason to keep me indefinitely? Qué coincidencia.

But I couldn’t remember last night, and attempting to only made my head hurt worse. Though I was no longer nauseated, I was wiped out, my temples pounding.

This pillow-top bed was like a cloud, the thread count of the sheets astronomical. I lay back and tugged the fluffy duvet close, gazing out through the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows at the ocean. In minutes, I drifted off.

I dreamed I was lying out by the pool while Sevastyan’s hooded eyes watched the sun darken my skin. . . .

When I woke, I was curled against his bare chest, my bent leg stretched over his thighs. Staring out at the water, he lay tensed, with his hands behind his head. He reminded me of our first night, when he’d kept his arms over the back of the sofa, struggling not to touch me.

The sun was setting? I’d slept the day away? Tentatively, I eased up. No headache? No stomachache? I stretched my arms above my head.

He shifted as well, sitting up against the headboard. “You slept for hours.”

As if speaking to a child, I said, “Because I was recovering from being blackout drunk. A condition I found myself in because you kept pouring champagne. I trusted my older-man date and got trashed with him, and the next thing I know, I’m on the wrong end of a speculum, getting an IUD shoved inside my body—after being informed I’m a prisoner.”

“Funny you should mention my being an older man. The doctor said you were probably in your early twenties.”

“I never said I was twenty-six.”

“You looked young, but your confidence made me believe you were older.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Tell me you can legally drink in this country.”

“Relax, Father Time. You’re not going to jail for serving me alcohol—only for everything else.”

“You’re twenty-two, aren’t you? When I was twenty-two you were thirteen.”