The Player (The Game Maker #3)(18)

Oh, yeah, this family had some secrets. What kind of crazy? Eccentric billionaire? Or “I keep ladies’ ears as trophies”?

No, my grift sense told me he wasn’t the type of man who’d harm a woman, a spanking aside. Just to be sure, I asked, “Have you ever hurt anyone?”

He exhaled a gust of air that heated my ear. “Never a woman, never anyone weaker than myself.”

Not a lie. I suspected Dmitri’s damage was turned inward; he’d been hurt. I had no idea what to say.

He cupped my nape and pulled me in until our foreheads met. All of a sudden, we were the only two people in the world. “Are my chances blown?” he rasped.

In real life? Yes. I would end this tonight. With my family in survival mode, I didn’t have time for a damaged man. Hell, I didn’t have time for any guy. “I’m surprised you’ll admit it.”

“I will never lie to you. And you asked me a very direct question.”

As I considered his admission, my mind hurtled to that last night with Brett—when I’d found him naked in our bed with a showgirl, his fingers deep inside her.

I’d known men were dogs, yet for some reason I’d let down my guard with the big, affable high-school football coach.

Now as I gazed at the Russian, I realized where my preferences lay. I looked Dmitri in the eyes and told him the truth: “I’d rather have an honest madman than a sane liar.”

He squeezed me to him so tightly I thought I would bruise, but I didn’t want it to stop. . . .





CHAPTER 8

“Tell us what happened!” Karin called from my bedroom before I’d even shut my apartment door.

Had Dmitri heard that? He’d walked me from the limo, taken my key, and opened the lock for me. His kiss goodnight had been brief but tender. “Until tomorrow,” he’d said.

I peered out the peephole. He stood at my doorstep with his brows drawn. He’d made no secret that he wanted to come in, but I had grift gear out in the open: wigs, ID maker, props, etc. Besides, I needed to be elusive at this point.

With clear reluctance, he finally headed toward the limo.

I put my back against the door and exhaled, as if I were catching my breath for the first time tonight. . . .

Still buzzed, I veered toward my bedroom, passing the tiny living area I used as a sewing studio. My mom had taught Karin and me how to make our own clothes because many of our cons required us to look like money; retail couture would eat into profits.

As I passed my dress dummies, garment racks, and my old busted-up Singer, I tried to remember when I’d last had time to use them.

Karin, Pete, and Benji were camped out on my oversize bed, flipping through textbooks from my stint at design school.

“What are you guys doing here?” Hanging out in my lame one-bedroom unit? I had barely any furniture, zero decorations, and no TV. Boxes filled with posters of eighties bands and movie memorabilia lined the walls, unopened since I’d moved from Brett’s last year.

I’d meant to do a POP—pratfall on property—at a better apartment complex, but hadn’t gotten around to it.

Karin sat up against the headboard, beaming. “We could hardly wait for you to divvy what happened!” She wore shorts and a broken-in T-shirt that read: It was me. I let the dogs out. Our grandmother had given that to her. Out of love, Karin wore it constantly.

My pink cellphone had been a present from Gram, which meant I cherished it—no matter how much I hated the color pink. Not to mention that “dialing the pink telephone” was a euphemism for masturbation. I told myself it was better than the Snuggie she’d gotten Pete or Benji’s hobbit-feet socks.

“Holy shit, sis.” Benji’s coffee-brown eyes lit up. “What a difference a day makes, huh?”

To see my brother today, you’d never guess how much he’d suffered on the streets as a little boy. He’d grown up to be lava-hot, tall and built, with a quiet strength that drew people.

Eighteen years ago, he’d been a seven-year-old street urchin trying to hustle my dad. A scrawny thing with huge eyes, he’d had a talent at cards that rivaled mine and little memory of how he got to the States. He’d called himself Benji because he’d probably been born in Bengal, India.

Dad had seen potential. With no parents to be found, he’d brought Benji home, and we’d adopted him.

“Did you really tangle with a billionaire?” he asked.

I hiccupped and grinned.

“You didn’t sleep with the Russian, did you?” Pete asked, seeming to brace himself for my answer.

I made a chopping motion. “Sex—nyet.”

Relieved looks all around.

I tossed my keys and my purse onto my dime-store desk. Lucía’s watch rattled inside that secret compartment. “But we did hook up.” I sat in my fold-up chair and took off my heels, wincing from my aching feet.

“Tell us, hon!” Karin said. “What’s he like?”

“He’s . . . he’s . . .” I tried to put him into words. “With him, it’s . . .” I gave up. “Lemme go take a shower.”

Under the paltry water pressure, I considered and discarded descriptions. How to explain someone like Dmitri Sevastyan?

Once I padded back out in my robe, Benji said, “Well?”

I hopped up on a free corner of my bed. “Dmitri is magnetic and fascinating and . . . unconventional.”