The Professional: Part 2 (The Game Maker #1.2)(33)

As if he knew I was watching him, he glanced up at the camera as he set the box down on the counter. The look in his eyes was filled with warning. And maybe even a little . . . sadness. Then he left again.

Where was he going, and why leave the package? Was it a peace offering—or a parting gift?

I sprinted to the stairs, bounding down them to the kitchen. I tore into the box, finding an emerald-green beaded gown. Lingerie was included—a cropped black satin bustier with a matching thong. Thigh-highs and heels completed the ensemble.

There was even a long velvet jewel case with emerald earrings and a matching pendant.

I swallowed. What was this all about? I spied a card inside, snatched it up. As I read his handwriting, my excitement receded, my stomach giving a lurch.

Nine tonight. Be careful what you wish for.

S





Chapter 33




I finished pinning my hair up just before nine, then checked my appearance in the floor-length mirror.

The gown was nothing short of exquisite. The beading was sophisticated and asymmetrical, the design sweeping up my body, drawing attention to the high slit at the right leg, then to my flaring hips and finally my breasts, which were on full display.

At first, I’d thought the bodice didn’t fit; then I’d realized my boobs were supposed to bubble up on top like this. The pendant he’d given me nestled right at my cleavage.

This look had called for makeup, so I’d put on lipstick, mascara, and even some shimmery eye shadow that made the color of my eyes pop. I’d snapped a selfie of my getup and texted it to Jess. She’d pronounced me a stone-cold fox. She’d pronounced herself heteroflexible and very interested in sexy funtimes with buxom redheads.

Still, having never dressed in anything like this, I was having qualms about going out in public. But then, I had no idea where Sevastyan was taking me, or even if he was taking me out. My dolling up could be part of some fantasy of his.

Was I nervous? Hell, yeah. That card had spooked me. Yet then I’d reminded myself of what exactly I’d wished for: to explore our darkest desires—together.

And, man, was I game.

Plus, his concession signaled that he was trying to make me happy. I considered whatever he was about to show me as couples therapy, team building for two—

Sevastyan appeared in the doorway of our room. I sucked in a breath at his heart-stopping appearance.

He wore a traditional one-button tuxedo, obviously bespoke. The jacket flawlessly highlighted his broad shoulders and muscular chest. The material screamed expensive, but the cut said conservative.

Understated accessories—stoneless cuff links, a pocket square of dark silk with a barely-there design, a classic tie—completed his spellbinding ensemble.

His clean-shaven jaw made my hands itch to caress those chiseled edges.

He’d retained just one of his rings for the night, that sexy thumb ring. Along with his tattoos, it was a gritty counterpoint to the elegance of the rest of his outfit.

Even in a tux, he was still my street fighter. This man was on his way to becoming mine, was taking steps—albeit strange and mysterious ones—to advance our relationship.

Maybe in time he could feel something deeper for me too.

Studying my appearance as avidly as I studied his, he murmured, “Anticipation becomes you.” He drew back to rake his gaze over me from the ground up. “Ya potryasyon.” I’m undone.

“I could say the same.”

“Come.” When he put his hand on my hip to lead me downstairs, I could feel the heat of his palm even through the dress beading. Was he nervous? Or just that eager?

“Where are we going anyway?”

“Dinner first.”

So we were heading outside of the mansion, and I looked like Jessica Rabbit. Oh, well. See me, love me, motherfleckers. “And then?”

“Patience,” he murmured with a squeeze of my hip.

He helped me into a sleek new stole—fur again, Siberian?—then into our waiting limo. As we set out, tension rippled between Sevastyan and me. I had no idea what he was thinking, feeling. But when I shimmied in the dress and flashed my thigh-high through the gown’s slit, his lips parted on an exhalation.

Our destination was a posh restaurant called Plaisirs. Its patrons were dressed to the nines—yet even they stopped and stared at Sevastyan as we walked by, forkfuls of food hovering in midair. They even stared at me.

The Nebraska girl cleaned up good. Feeling more confident, I squared my shoulders and lifted my chin, which seemed to please Sevastyan.

Dinner—at what had to be the best table in the house—was a light, sensual affair. Lobster, succulent fruits, delectable truffles, petits fours. The wine was so sublime I couldn’t stop licking my lips.

Sevastyan ordered a vodka rocks, but didn’t touch it.

I was just tipsy enough to ask, “If you don’t drink, why order it?”

He released a pent-up breath, as if he’d known this question was coming eventually. “My father was an alcoholic. I do not wish to become one,” he said in utter understatement. “But in Russia . . .”

“So many things involve alcohol?”

“Exactly. Maybe I do it to test my resolve.”

He’d confided something to me! My heart gave a little flutter. We were moving in the right direction. And suddenly his comment about the irony of smuggling cheap booze made perfect sense. “Is your father still alive?”