The Player (The Game Maker #3)(48)

Issues? How vague. But could they possibly be worse than the cartel’s threat of a burning tire?

“And when I make you my wife, you will be looked after no matter what might happen to me.”

Happen to him? Freaked out, I cried, “Are you dying?”

His tone was almost amused when he said, “No, moy ángel. But I want you to be a Sevastyan. It will make everything easier.”

Victoria Sevastyan. Get the hell out! “This move would put us both firmly in the crazy camp. I don’t know anything about you.”

“I was born to make you happy. To protect you. Marry me, and I will free you. I will give you the entire goddamned world.”

Free me? “You don’t know anything about me either!”

“Do I not? I have identified the most beautiful, intelligent, talented female I will ever meet. Added to that, she is a wanton who makes my body burn.” My cheeks flushed; my family was hearing this. “I will never find her equal. Why would I not want to secure her for my own?”

He sounded so logical. Where was the knee-jerk angst of before?

Dmitri cupped my face. “You said when you look at me a spell comes over you. Let it. Because I feel the same way when I look at you, and I’ve given myself up to it. Just surrender.”

My eyes pricked with tears. Real ones. I blurted out, “I don’t love you.” I could imagine my family gazing heavenward. Silly little Vice, gumming up the works.

Dmitri canted his head, trying to read my expression. “Could you?”

As I considered his question, moments and impressions played in my mind. . . .

His teasing tone as I’d ogled his ass. The way I fit on his lap. My protectiveness toward him. The connection I felt when he drew my forehead to his. How he’d beheld my body as if it were a gift he’d treasure forever. His touch. His kiss.

I told him the truth: “Yes. I could.”

He offered me his hand. Cuts remained across his palms from his nails. Because he’d fought to hold out last night. To keep his promise to me.

How could I not take that hand?

His eyes lightened to gold. “You’re going to be my wife, aren’t you?” His lips curled. His first half-smile.

My heart thudded. And. I. Was. Done.





In front of the justice of the peace, I fidgeted.

The ring was like a brand around my finger. The fit was perfect, but I kept banging my cheekbone every time I tucked my hair behind my ear—a nervous tell I’d trained myself out of when little.

Of course, I had no ring for Dmitri, since I hadn’t had the time or the money to buy one. But standing here empty-handed still felt weird.

Since I’d met him, my life had been like quicksand; the more I tried to right myself—to do right by my family and by Dmitri—the deeper I sank with him. As if fate wouldn’t have it any other way.

What were his issues? What would he do when I asked for a divorce?

A traitorous thought arose. What if I . . . didn’t?

Sounding so proud to be marrying me, Dmitri had already said, “I do,” in a deep, resounding voice.

I was really about to get hitched. Not really really. But it seemed genuine.

My turn. I met his eyes. As Dmitri had asked of me, I let the spell take over. As if from a million miles away, I heard myself murmur, “I do.”

When the man said, “I now pronounce you husband and wife,” my lips parted on a pent-up breath.

I could see a new emotion in Dmitri’s gaze, and it frightened me more than any red flag.

Burning in his eyes was . . . hope.





CHAPTER 21

“The property begins here,” Dmitri told me as the limo from the private airport turned onto a winding drive.

Gigantic sequoias flanked the way. Their shade was damp and green, so different from Vegas.

At every second on the plane ride here, I’d expected him to regret his rash behavior. Instead I’d detected relief. He’d proudly introduced me—to the pilot, the flight attendant, and his bodyguards—as his wife, Victoria Sevastyan. When he’d taken a brief call from Aleks, Dmitri had said my name a few times in their conversation, his gaze falling on me, satisfaction brimming in his eyes.

When I’d told him his jet was badass, he’d corrected me: “Our jet.” Then he’d suggested I contact my family and update them while he made a couple of business calls.

To manage his empire? I could be a supportive fake wife. “Of course. Take your time.”

I’d furtively snapped a pic of the ring to text, then dialed our conference line, keeping my end of the conversation as bland as possible. Pandemonium had reigned in the immediate family, everyone talking over each other. I kept picturing the Muppets overturning the Muppet Theater.

Dad, Al, and Gram wanted me to keep my new husband and be a happy billionairess girl. As Dad had said, “Sevastyan’s mad for you, and we’ll work out something on our end. We always do.”

Mom, Pete, and Karin wanted me to “lose” the ring, smuggling it to them. After all, Dmitri would have it insured, and the take would be plenty to pay off the cartel for good.

Al had estimated its worth at . . . eight million.

Once the debt was squared, they suggested reconvening on this whole “marriage to a gull” problem. Because grifting wasn’t just a job; it was a way of life.