The Master (The Game Maker #2)(45)

“If you have to hide me, then why don’t you just send me packing?”

“You’ll remain with me until I’m done with you.”

Ooh, that burned me up! I wanted to slap him. At times like this I actually missed my shitty existence. Though I felt safe and had spare time, and had eaten so much lobster I was nearly sick of it, I did yearn for things.

Like having an occupation and running. I even missed attending class. “Oh, I see. Poor Sevastyan is still wanting this ass.” I gave a theatrical sigh. “I suppose if I’m going to be your quote-unquote prisoner for another day, then I’ll need things. I know you like to keep me barefoot and not-pregnant, but my uniform is getting old.”

“Give me your address, and I’ll send someone to fetch whatever you need.”

“I can’t give you that kind of information. You know why, chulo? Because I do fear a besotted client, and we both know that you want me more than I want you.”

His shoulders tensed up. All arrogance, he said, “Then it’s fortunate that I don’t give a f*ck if you want me or not. Don’t test my patience. This week I’ll have little enough of it.”

I’d hit a chink in his armor! “Speaking of this week. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve.”

“Do not remind me.” Arctic blast. Somebody doesn’t like Christmas? “Your partner will have to miss your smiles for the holiday. Never forget, Cat, you’re here for my use—at my disposal.”

Spanish left my lips, insulting him and all his ancestors. Yet then I grinned evilly, planning to shove seven figures’ worth of his suits into the hot tub. To begin with.

He did a double take at my expression, then stormed off, barking something to Vasili on his way out. Probably: “Watch her.”

I stewed for another thirty minutes, deciding how else to screw with Sevastyan.

In the shower, I lit on an idea. I couldn’t dial out on the hotel phone, but I could dial down.

I dressed in one of his T-shirts for the last time, then called the concierge. “I’m Maksimilian Sevastyan’s girlfriend,” I told him. “And I’m going to need some things brought up to the penthouse and billed to the room.”

“Of course. My name is Alonzo, and I’d be happy to be of service.”

Muy bien. “Do you have a pen and paper?”

The man didn’t miss a beat when I ordered bathing suits, cover-ups, lingerie, slip-on beach sandals, dresses, Louboutins, makeup, and my favorite brands of toiletries. I ordered multiple pairs of running shoes, athletic boy-shorts, and sports bras.

To go with all my workout wear, I kind of bought a treadmill.

When boxes began arriving, Vasili, the hulk of Russian bodyguards, scowled at me from the lobby. Three new security guys were with him, now searching the boxes. They were as impassive as robots, their holsters and guns visible—because they were ready to drop anybody not authorized to be on this floor.

Ha! Do your worst, Edward.

The treadmill delivery made Vasili’s scowl deepen, folds appearing on his bald head. “Not smart.”

“Sevastyan shouldn’t have taken on the responsibility of a new pet if he didn’t have time to watch her. My breed is very destructive.”

In broken English, he said, “Boss not type of man to f*ck with.”

“I’ll let you in on a secret. I’m not the type of woman to f*ck with.” Everyone always underestimated how tough I was. I kept getting knocked down, but I also kept rebounding, every—damned—time. During this enforced vacation, I would run miles in addition to swimming laps, getting even stronger.

I directed the deliveryman to set up the treadmill in front of the wall of windows in the guest bedroom. Ah, a view of the water for my jogs.

After that, I opened packages and tried on my swag for hours. The bathing suits alone were amazing. I’d told Alonzo to get a shopgirl to pick out “crazy sexy,” and in Miami, that wasn’t a phrase to be taken lightly.

I ate my room-service lunch, then moisturized with a light oil that made my skin shimmer. I changed into a scarlet micro-thong that had a little bell on the back. Love! My skimpy black bikini top barely covered my areolas.

On my way to the pool, my boudoir heels click-clacked, accompanying my bell.

Once I’d made sure I had a tan line over my ass to taunt Sevastyan, I rang up Alonzo for a hair stylist to come trim my hair. A manicurist as well. Vasili had glowered at them when they arrived, but he’d let them through.

While Sheila and Vera worked, we three enjoyed room-service pi?a coladas with ground nutmeg on the top. The cocktail was so delicious I called down to the bar manager to pass on my compliments, or rather, the Russian’s. “All the drinks for the hotel are to be put on his tab today. Tell everyone Salud and Feliz Navidad from Mr. Maksimilian Sevastyan!”

I tipped the girls in Louboutins and dresses that were too big for me.

They departed not long before Sevastyan and his business associates arrived.

I was just returning inside myself. Qué coincidencia! Naturally I tugged down the back of my thong so that the tan line was visible.

The group looked like European businessmen—with an edge. For every man in a suit, there was a tougher, less polished bodyguard.

And still, Sevastyan looked more dangerous than all the others put together.

When they caught sight of me, they stutter-stepped at my getup. Even Vasili raised a brow.