Velvet Devil: A Russian Mafia Romance (6)

“Good books. Classics. Austen, Dickens, Du Maurier, Shakespeare. That kind of thing.”

“Shakespeare, huh?” I muse. I stroke my clean-shaven jaw. “You strike me as a King Lear kind of girl. I always preferred Hamlet.”

Her eyes leap up on her forehead. “You’ve read Hamlet?”

“Should I be offended by your surprise?”

She blushes guiltily. “Sorry. I just… You don’t seem like a big reader.”

“So yes, I should be offended.”

Laughter bubbles through her lips. I can’t take my eyes off her fucking smile. So goddamn innocent.

I eye her unapologetically. The flush has extended past her cheeks and down to her chest. The tops of her breasts are rosy now. Begging for attention.

Her green eyes are bright, shimmering with excitement, with the adrenaline of stepping outside of the neat lines of her life. She’s bookish and quiet, a wallflower, a stay-out-of-the-way kind of girl. My polar fucking opposite.

And I notice that she’s leaning towards me. Same as how I can’t help leaning in towards her.

Our bodies seeking one another out.

The fact that I haven’t yet touched her, apart from that fleeting kiss on the cheek, seems ridiculous. Damn near offensive. I’m itching to tear that dress off her and lick all the way down to her thighs.

“What else have you read?” she prods. “Or do you just throw out the Hamlet line to impress women?”

“Why do I get the feeling that I’m being tested?”

She picks up her wine glass and shrugs her shoulders in a gesture that’s very femme fatale. I like her fire, her feistiness. “Am I making you nervous?” she teases.

“I’m never nervous. Merely intrigued.”

“By the question?”

“By you.”

She almost wilts under the intensity of my stare. Maybe this is all too much for a girl like her. She’s not used to a man like me. A man who isn’t afraid to take what he wants.

But then, at the last moment, she sucks in a frantic breath and straightens up. Shoulders back, eyes forward, spine tall, she looks me in the eyes and meets fire with fire.

I’ve never been harder.

“To answer your question, I’ve read a fair amount. Dostoevsky. Tolstoy. Bulgakov. Pushkin. Gogol. To name a few.”

“All Russian authors,” she says. “Am I right in assuming you are, too?”

I nod.

“Vorobev,” she murmurs, her eyebrows knotting together thoughtfully. “Why do I feel like I’ve heard that name before?”

I give nothing away. The Bratva isn’t exactly a commonly discussed topic in this city. Mostly because the cops don’t like admitting they have no control over me or my men.

But we’re not a secret, either.

“I couldn’t say.”

She smiles. “Is this you being mysterious again?”

“Maybe you should ask another question.”

She purses her lips. “Fine. What do you do?”

“A lot,” I reply vaguely. “I own many different businesses.”

“Please don’t say you’re a ‘self-made man,’” she says. “Reggie said it about thirty times tonight, and the phrase alone makes me want to throw up in my mouth.”

I grin. “In some ways, yes; in others, no,” I say. “But I’ve worked hard to build and expand them. So you shouldn’t think I’m a—”

“A trust fund kid?”

I smirk. “I haven’t been a kid for a long time.”

Her smile slowly fades away. “I believe that.”

As we lapse into silence, the eye contact between us takes on a different rhythm. The static in the air is more charged than ever.

I’ve seen green eyes before. But not like hers. The color is soft, mellow. The kind of green that you spy in the folds of the ocean, rippling between the deep blues and murky greys.

She jerks her gaze away from mine, breaking the eye contact. “The restaurant has cleared out,” she points out.

I look around, realizing she’s right. We’re the only two still sitting at a table, though the staff is still milling around, cleaning up.

The streets have emptied out, too. Except for my armored G-Wagon, which is parked across the street, right in front of the SUV that holds my personal security detail.

As I’m looking out the window, something catches my eye. A man standing almost out of sight. He’s average in height, balding at the top of his head, and wearing clothes that look like he’s pilfered them off a homeless shelter.

But the direction of his gaze catches my eye.

Because it’s not me he’s looking at.

It’s Cami.

And it’s not the casual leer of a creep checking out a beautiful woman in a little black dress. It’s more than that. There’s intent behind his gaze.

I don’t fucking like it.

But I wave the thought away, and as I do, the man straightens up and vanishes into the night. I’m being paranoid for no reason. My meeting still has me on edge.

“Isaak?”

The sound of my name tripping off her tongue feels strangely fucking erotic. My cock has been hard for a full hour now, and it’s starting to become painful.

“Are you okay?”