Empire of Sin (Empire #2)(2)

This night is a first for everything.

“Right away.” He gets busy and speaks to me over his shoulder, “You like your vodka, I assume?”

“A little.”

Okay, that was a white lie. I never thought I would fit the stereotype of how every Russian loves vodka, but when we celebrated my eighteenth birthday two years ago, I was told I needed to drink it and ever since then, I refuse to consume any other type of alcohol.

A smirk lifts Simon’s lips as if he’s amused by how much I like vodka. “Are you new around here?”

Shit. Shit. He figured me out, didn’t he? Everyone does. It doesn’t matter if I chose a place out of state or that I faked a driver’s license and my age.

One look at me and people know who I am and where I came from. No amount of makeup and red dresses will change what I am.

Who I am.

Maybe I should abort this before it gets too complicated. Maybe I can drive back earlier than planned, and—

I shake my head internally. I worked so hard for this freedom. I’m not going to give it all up now.

So I wear the best smile I can offer as I stare at the bartender for a brief second before I cut off eye contact. “Why are you asking?”

“I just haven’t seen you around, is all.”

My muscles relax when a shaky breath whooshes out of me.

See? It’s nothing. I’m safe here. I made sure no one from my circle comes to this place, after all.

He places the martini in front of me. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Thanks, Simon.”

He grins and I know he’s about to strike up a conversation. I can see it in the ease in his eyes and the way his body is leaning toward me.

Learning body language is a given in the world that I’ve lived in all my life. I might be insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but I recognize these things.

Simon opens his mouth to speak, but he’s interrupted when an intruder slides onto the stool right beside me, even though the rest of the chairs are empty.

Oh, please.

It took me a lot of planning to get to a stage where my brain is willing to take things to the next level. I don’t do well with people around.

They have eyes. And most of them are judgy and critical and are always out to get me.

Okay, maybe they aren’t, but I can’t really rationalize that. Because I feel their eyes again. A pair or maybe two.

And they’re watching me. Closely. Intently. As if they can rip open my fa?ade and peek inside the shell I’ve surrounded myself with.

“Macallan, neat.”

My fingers tighten around the martini, then I empty half of it in one go. That deep, low voice with the calm undertone is the reason I feel the watchful eyes. I can sense it deep in my heart that’s never steered me wrong.

Is it one of the bodyguards I overlooked in my plan? No, that’s not possible. They think I’m sick and sleeping in my room so no one will disturb me until the morning.

Using my hair as a curtain, I tilt my head to the side to get a better look. I try not to be obvious about it, try to pretend my legs aren’t shaking and my flight mode isn’t kicking me to move my butt and bolt out of here.

The man who’s sitting beside me has a presence as deep as his voice. There’s an unnerving quality to him, even though he’s just sitting there.

His physical appearance has something to do with it. He’s handsome, shockingly so. Unfairly so. Probably the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen—and that includes actors and super models. He has the type of physical perfection that makes you stop and stare.

As if that’s not enough, he’s tall, his legs look long even when sitting, and his shoulders are so broad that the jacket of his Armani suit molds to his developed muscles.

Muscles that could easily overpower me if he chooses to. I shouldn’t be thinking about that option. Hell, I should be apprehensive about it, considering all the men in my life, but I can’t overlook the fact that this particular man could and would overpower me in a heartbeat.

A sudden flush of heat coats my thighs and I have to clench them together to chase away the sensation. I need to focus on something else, anything but the liquid fire that I shouldn’t be feeling.

But I’m slammed with something worse.

His face.

It’s a force that hits you out of nowhere. There’s a hardness in it, a zing of electricity that’s about to electrocute whoever is near.

A volcano that’s on the verge of erupting.

I’ve never found male beauty to be dangerous, and that’s saying something considering who I am and whom I encounter on a daily basis.

But his is different. It’s not supposed to be dangerous, I realize. His beauty isn’t there to teach a lesson or bash someone’s head in. He’s wearing a designer suit and is drinking Macallan for God’s sake, which means he’s some sort of a businessman. His thick Swiss watch that’s strapped around his wrist must’ve cost a small fortune. It’s luxurious.

He is luxurious. And not in a dangerous way like all the men in my life.

Instead, it’s in a powerful, neat way. Like his whiskey. So why is there danger emanating from him?

His hair is light, but not as light as my platinum blonde that’s almost white. His is somewhat chestnut, somewhat sandy, and it’s styled, which showcases his forehead and killer cheekbones. He has a straight nose and a square jaw that gives him a sharp type of masculinity.