The Master (The Game Maker #2)(34)

“That sounds like a you problem.” Then I frowned. “Why did you get in my bed?”

He let the other subject drop. “Because I can.”

“Is that why you pulled me against you?”

“I didn’t. You moved toward me, clasping me close, because you’re used to sleeping with your partner.”

Whatever. “You put your arms behind your head because you were tempted to pet my hair, weren’t you? Hmm? Hmm? You enjoy petting my hair.”

He didn’t answer.

“I’ll bet you’ve been replaying our night, and it’s got you sprung. This just proves my theory.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Which is?”

“That you like me more than I like you. You’d rather kidnap me than let me go.” I stretched again. “Will I be fed during my captivity? I’m starving. In prison, I’d get two hots and a cot.”

Glowering at me, he picked up the phone and dialed room service. “What do you want?”

I scrambled over him and snatched away the phone, enjoying his shocked expression.

“Hablas espa?ol?” I asked the woman.

“Sí.”

Inwardly I wore an evil grin. In Spanish, I told her, “I need pizzas. Six of them. Big. Macaroni and cheese. Lobster bisque and whatever else you have with lobster. Basically lobster piled on lobster. I want Cokes. Not diet, but real ones. In glass bottles, if you can find them. Also, if you bring up ten Cuban midnight sandwiches, with extra pickles, Mr. Sevastyan will tip you extravagantly. Please put that gratuity in with the total. Excellent. Thank you for your help!” As I hung up, my stomach growled in readiness.

“I suppose you always sleep the day through,” Sevastyan said, his tone snide. “Occupational necessity.”

I sighed. “You keep thinking you know things about me. Yet you are always so wrong, it astounds me.”

“Then give me an example.”

The bilked heiress accused of bilking another! “You’d never believe me. You’d laugh in my face. But one day, when all this is a distant memory, I’ll send you a postcard—with a list. Once you verify everything, you’ll cringe with embarrassment.” He opened his mouth to reply, so I abruptly rose to go to the bathroom.

The spacious area was bigger than my studio. For as long as I was in Sevastyan’s tower, I’d enjoy free toiletries, unlimited hot water, and all the towels I could possibly use. With no visits to the laundromat. The life!

I knotted my hair atop my head, then washed my face. I brushed my teeth with another complimentary toothbrush.

I passed him on my way out, not deigning to speak to him. With nothing to do but wait on my gourmet feast, I took one of his business journals to the pool deck, my prison yard. I stretched out on a sofa directly under a heater.

I noticed that everything had been cleaned—by someone who was not me. For once! Talk about a gilded cage.

When I heard the doorbell, I rushed inside, uncaring what I looked like. Three waiters were pushing laden carts into the living room. They made a valiant effort not to look at my braless breasts under my T-shirt.

Sevastyan had put on a shirt. He scowled at my chest, then said, “What is this?”

“You didn’t specify what I should order. And don’t we have to feed all of our bodyguards? They can have whatever I don’t eat. If there’s anything left over.”

Once the platters had been spread out and the men had departed, Sevastyan said, “This is ridiculous.”

“Since I lost out on the big bucks, dinner is my consolation prize. Are you going to begrudge me one paltry, very large meal, when you foiled my plan for millions? Millions!” I bit my knuckle theatrically.

“You think this is funny?”

“Someday you’ll see the humor like I do. I only wish I could be around to see the look on your face.” I started hunting for my sandwich. “Ah, there!”

He grudgingly said, “What is that?”

I smelled it. “Medianoche.” Midnight sandwich. Eaten after clubbing.

He retrieved one, tasting it. “Good.” He took another bite.

I tried mine. Not as good as I made, but it’d do. “Dibs on anything with lobster.” I grabbed a Coke, opened the bottle. Drink and plate in hand, I headed back out to the pool.

He could keep me prisoner—ha!—but that didn’t mean I had to spend time with him. I returned to my sofa to eat.

Over my meal, I concluded that I should be thankful for this rift between me and the Russian. I’d liked him so much that I might have done something stupid like really trust him. I would’ve told myself that since he was in the mafiya, he could help me with my legal problems—and would never judge me for the blood I’d shed. Now I realized that he could use my precarious situation to manipulate me.

Sevastyan’s behavior proved that I had the shittiest taste in men. If I started to develop feelings toward a guy, then he should be on an FBI watch list, and I should run the other way. This was as undeniable as science.

All for the best.

Once I’d finished eating, I lay back and closed my eyes. As I delved into my memories from the night before, more details surfaced of conversations we’d had. On the topic of sex secrets, I’d told him I’d never deep-throated before or had anal, though both were fantasies of mine.