The Professional: Part 2 (The Game Maker #1.2)(36)

The air was warm, smelling of candle wax and . . . newness. Which was odd, considering how vintage everything else had seemed.

It also smelled of leather.

The woman opened a waiting bottle of chilled champagne, pouring two flutes before she left. At the door, she gave me a knowing wink. What did she know that I didn’t?

Maybe that a train was barreling down the trestle? Or how deep the freaking water was?

Keep cool, Natalie. I trusted this man to protect me, to pleasure me, to be what I needed him to be.

He motioned to the settee. “Sit.”

I did, noting that it faced the theater curtain. Would we be viewing a movie? A bawdy play? We hadn’t gotten to enjoy the masquerade at all, I thought with disappointment. In books, people always got to stay till midnight at least—not ten measly minutes.

Now that my eyes had adjusted to the dim light, I spied covered shapes throughout the room—shapes that could be anything. But I had an idea. My mind raced to those BDSM vids I’d devoured, the primer I’d inhaled, the magazine I’d shown him. Was there a pillory in here, or a spanking bench, or a swing? Would Sevastyan bind me up to torment me?

Part of me was terrified at the prospect. But I was woman enough to admit the idea got me wet. Roll with it, roll with it.

When he sat beside me, I said, “What is this room?”

“It’s ours. One of the very few available to own.”

Ours? “How long have you had it?”

“About nine hours. I had it renovated today and equipped to my specifications.”

Since our fight this morning? That explained the new smell. I could only imagine the money he’d had to throw at this to get everything ready in time.

He picked up a multi-button remote from the table beside the settee. “You told me that you wanted to see more of Paris. Here’s another slice of it.” He pressed a button. The curtain began to open, revealing a wall of glass.

Behind the glass was . . . was . . .

When I realized what I was beholding, I breathed, “Oh. My. God.”

Sevastyan’s hand shot out to catch my champagne flute just before it hit the ground. . . .