The Player (The Game Maker #3)(17)

But I didn’t care—because I was running game on him. “When do you return to Russia?”

“That depends. I have an opportunity I’m investigating here.” He made me sound like the opportunity.

Was he almost on the hook? If so, then I would need to be elusive. Give and take, ebb and flow. “I might have to work tomorrow night.”

“Why?”

“Is work such a foreign concept?”

“I know work. For over a decade, I sequestered myself in a research lab seventeen hours a day, seven days a week.”

“Really?” According to Pete’s notes, Dmitri owned two of the fifty highest-grossing tech patents.

He nodded. “I’ve already completed a lifetime of work. Literally. I did the math.”

“Then what were you asking?”

“Are you working toward something? Saving up?”

“Oh. I wouldn’t mind replacing A2B. That’s my ancient truck’s nickname.” Because getting me from point A to point B was the only thing noteworthy about the junker. Lately, point B was a stretch. When I’d left Brett, I’d also left behind the car he’d been paying for. “By the sound of its engine, I’m pretty sure my truck’s trying to tell me, ‘Go on . . . without me . . . save yourself.’”

The corner of Dmitri’s lips curled again. I hadn’t seen him smile fully, but his micro-smile was still a heart-stopper.

“A vehicle is all you want?”

Was he angling for big gifts already? I was an ace at milk-cowing! It seemed a little early for step five of the long con—the pitch—but if he was receptive . . . “And I’m getting evicted soon.” So buy me a pony—and a condo!

“We can’t have you getting evicted, moy ángel.”

Step five was best done gradually over several meetings; having planted the seed, I changed the subject. “What did you mean when you said you have difficulty reading others?”

“I can claim no talent for it. I know science and math and technology, but I am repeatedly thrown by people.”

His admission softened me even more toward him. Any hints of vulnerability made this larger-than-life man more relatable—he’s actually a mortal—but he shouldn’t tell people stuff like that, or they’d fleece him blind.

People like me. My pang of guilt hit me like a sucker punch. “Then how do you know who to trust?”

His eyes dimmed. “We always find out in the long run, do we not?”

Whoa, I wasn’t the only one whose trust had been betrayed. And this man was still suffering from it. Had a former friend inflicted that damage? A family member?

A lover?

The idea of him scorned by a woman and possibly still in love with her made me so jealous, I grew anxious. Developing feelings for him would be disastrous.

And how would a man like him react if he found out what I was? His security might flag something on us, sooner or later.

I was betraying Dmitri’s trust right now. “Sounds like you got burned somewhere along the line.”

He gazed out the window. “Early along the line.”

“By someone you were involved with?”

He shrugged.

A pall seemed to have fallen over us. “Dmitri?” I laid my hand on his cheek, and his lids grew heavy. He leaned into my palm, and my heart twisted. He’d needed that tiny show of comfort from me.

Realization struck. He hadn’t been burned—he’d been hurt. A sense of protectiveness surged, startling me. I’d only ever felt this way about family.

Our motto was “To the grave,” because our loyalty to one another would never die.

Dmitri was revisiting some kind of pain; I wanted him to stay in the present with me. “Okay, big guy”—I skimmed the back of my fingers along his rugged jawline—“you ready to find out how I got my nickname?”

His eyes lit up with interest. “Yes. It does not make sense.” He was obviously a man who liked things to add up.

“When I was little, I was fascinated with vices. A mobile spinning above my crib would make me cry, but the sound of shuffled cards and clinking poker chips soothed me. I laughed and clapped if someone popped a bottle of bubbly, and I smothered other toddlers with kisses. All of them.” I grinned. “I was very inconstant.”

“I could listen to you talk about yourself for . . .” He trailed off. “There is no quantifiable limit of time.”

His compliment made me smile. Such a computer guy.

“I want more of this with you, Victoria. Be forewarned: I will have it.”

Had I made myself seem like a sure thing? Or was he thinking like a typical male in Vegas? “People have weird ideas about cocktail waitresses, Dmitri. You know that I’m not for sale, right?”

“I know. Or I would have already bought you.”

I grinned, thinking he was kidding, but he just stared into my eyes.

Too intense! So I tried a playful turn. “And what would you do if you owned me?” I tweaked his strong chin. “Would I be your slave?”

He shook his head. “I would free you, Victoria. And then I would buy you the entire goddamned world.”

My grin faded, my grift sense taking over. “Dmitri, are you . . . crazy?”

His chest stilled as he held his breath. Never looking away, he gave me a slow nod.