Moving Target (Target #3)(2)
If I don’t get this off my skin, I’ll be sticky when it dries, and that’s something I can’t stand. I need to take a detour to the bathroom to scrub my arms like a doctor going into surgery. Which means, BGS will have time to leave before I can make my move.
I narrow my eyes at the half-empty cup of beer. “You couldn’t have been club soda or water, could you?”
“Sorry,” the guy says, leering at me, his eyes going straight to my boobs. “Be happy to clean it up.”
“She doesn’t require your help.”
I blink, my head tipping back at the same time. BGS has joined us, and dear baby Jesus in a swing, he’s even more beautiful this close. Nearly white-blond hair, piercing green eyes, cheekbones so sharp they could cut my dress right off, and lips so full they could suck… Well, hopefully, they could suck on my skin, the tips of my fingers, my nipples, my clit…
I rub my thighs together and try to focus on the conversation between BSG and Leering Beer Slosher.
“Hey man, I’m just trying to be a gentleman.”
“Gentlemen don’t purposefully run into women.”
I snap my head around. “You did that on purpose?”
He grins sheepishly. “You can’t blame a guy for trying.”
“Trying is talking. You know… initiating conversations. Like this.” I turn back to BGS. “Hi, I’m Chloe. Would you like to have a drink with me?”
BGS’s eyes dance, even while his mouth keeps that perfect line of don’t screw with me. “Nice to meet you, Chloe. As long as you’ll allow me to pay, I’ll have drinks with you.”
Swoon. Swoon. Swoon. “And that’s how it’s done, cowboy.” After I lace my arm—the non-beer soaked one—through BGS’s, we walk away.
“Did you really want to have a drink, or was I an excuse to get away from an unwelcome… admirer?” he asks.
“Both,” I admit. “I think he was harmless. Mostly. You never know these days.”
He leads me to an empty, private booth in the back, near the VIP section of the nightclub. I look around. Wait, this isn’t near the VIP section. This is the VIP section.
“Da. Some people are not who they seem.” He gestures for me to take a seat on a rather plush-looking sofa. After I inspect the area and sit, a server rushes over, her full attention on us “What can I get for the two fo you?” she asks and I set to exploring the VIP section because I’m pretty sure I’ll never be invited to one again.
“Does that suit your taste, krasavitsa?”
“Krasavista?” I can’t help but ask. I have no idea what he’s ordered, but I’d rather know what language he’s speaking. Maybe Russian.
“It means beautiful,” he says, and my heart speeds up at his compliment.
“Miss?”
“Oh. Yes, whatever he ordered is fine with me.” I sit back in the too-die-for-soft sofa and cross my legs. After a heartbeat or three, he joins me. “You never told me your name.”
“Call me Dima.”
“Dima—is that short for something?”
He nods. “Yes.”
I wait for him to elaborate, but he sits there as silent as the Sphinx. Okay, then. “Been here long?”
“Less than an hour.”
I’d meant in this country, but whatever. However—his British-and Russian accent is hot. “On a date?” I hope not. I also hope he’s not a perv who wants me to join in on his perving ways.
Dima smiles. “I am now.”
“Oh, so we’re dating?” I slide closer to him, uncaring that I barely know him. This is my birthday, after all.
“The man you were with… will he mind if I take you back to my hotel?”
Well, that’s pretty bold. And I’m pretty turned on. “Why would he mind?”
“If you were my woman, I would kill the man who dared to think he could touch you.”
“Guess it’s a good thing I’m not your woman. Because the dude who sloshed beer all over my arm touched the crap out of me.” I press my hand to my bare shoulder and wince at how sticky it’s already become.
“Da. A very good thing.”
Our server reappears from out of nowhere, like the butler in the Mr. Deeds movie. She sets up a smorgasbord of food and drinks. Some I’ve seen before and some I haven’t. Most of it, I’m sure, cost more than I paid for this dress.
Dima’s gaze scans the room, as if he’s expecting someone to jump out of the crowd or the shadows at us. While he lounges against the sofa as if he’s all relaxed, he reminds me of a cat. A panther, ready to spring into action at any moment.
“The man you came with—”
“Mario. He’s in security—works at the CIA.”
He inclines his head. “He seems to be watching over you, but he’s also hitting on the redhead in the short skirt.”
What is it about redheads and short skirts tonight? Is that a new thing? “We’re best friends.” A blond brow rises, and I hold up my hands, palms facing outward. “Seriously. Have been since freshman year of college. Saved me from some baddies.”
“Ah.”
There could be a lot of implication behind that ah. A lot of meaning I don’t want to be true. “Are you interested in him?”