Moving Target (Target #3)(3)

He laughs. “If I were, I would have found an excuse to talk to him, not you.”

“Oh.” Then his words hit me, like that time I ran smack dab into the middle of a glass door. “You’re interested in me?”

“Obviously.”

I scoot closer to him. “Today is my birthday.”

“Any wishes?”

“They haven’t all come true.”

“Shall I give the birthday girl whatever she wants?” he asks, his voice a husky murmur that sends thrills down my entire body. I don’t think I’ve ever had a case of insta-lust like this before. Like ever.

Not even with Mario, and I totally crushed on him for saving me from those fratholes before finding out he wasn’t into me that way.

“Yes.”

He tips up my chin with one finger. “What does she want?”

“I want you.” Our lips are inches away. We’re so close to kissing that the anticipation running through my veins has turned straight into liquid fire.

Suddenly, his eyes narrow and he pushes me back with one hand against my chest. My head bangs against what has to be the only hard place on the sofa—most likely the edge of it.

“Not that rough,” I cry out, my hand going to my head.

“I’m so sorry.” Removing his hand, he inspects my hair and tenses up while I fight the urge to put his hand back on my chest. He was practically cupping a boob—and it’s been a long time since anything other than my bra has done that. “I thought there was a spider falling from the ceiling.”

“You’re smooth.” I pour myself a glass of champagne. When I glance at the label, I nearly wet my pants. “This is like twenty thousand a bottle. I saw an entire article about this brand on BuzzFeed.”

“Special night,” he says with a shrug, his gaze once again on the crowd.

Meanwhile, my hand is shaking. I’m not clumsy, never have been, but I’ve also never held twenty-thousand dollars in my hand. “Super special. Maybe you should pour yourself a glass.”

“Not drinking.”

“As a rule, or because you’re driving?”

His green gaze cuts back to me. “Always driving.”

“I’m not,” I chirp. “Ubered all the way over here. Well, it wasn’t that far, but no way can I walk four blocks in these heels.”

He flicks his eyes to my shoes. “I will take you home.”

“Don’t live here. Mario and I came up for my birthday weekend.”

“I will take you to my home.”

“You live here?”

“Manhattan.”

“This is my first time in the city. I’m from Virginia—small town outside of Richmond. Went to college at UVA, majored in business, and now I’m a highly skilled admin in D.C. who is highly underpaid.”

He leans into me, his fingers playing with the curls in my hair. “Your first time in the city and this is where your friend takes you?” He tsks.

“You’re here,” I point out before taking a sip of my champagne. It goes down my throat with bubbles popping.

I love it.

“Had a meeting.”

I scrunch up my nose. “In a nightclub?”

“I go where the money is.”

The server reappears in front of us. Dima nods, and she hits a button. Suddenly, we’re moving and the front of our booth is slowly being enclosed.

Panicking slightly, I search for Mario, but he’s on the dance floor with the redhead. His hands are on her ass.

Whipping out my phone, I send him a text.

In private VIP area. Our booth moved. I’m okay.

I know. Ran a check on him. Have fun.

That makes me feel a little better, but the only check Mario can run from here is facial recognition. He has an app for it on his CIA phone—I mean, work phone.

This is why I could never work for the CIA.

The room goes silent. There’s no one here but Dima, me, and a couch. Oh, and the smorgasbord of food and drink. A mirror replaces the wall, showing me our reflections.

“Anyone else you need to contact?” he asks.

“My mom?”

He motions to my phone. “Go on. I’ll wait.”

“A girl can never be too careful.”

“Indeed.” He brushes the side of my face. “Shall we check to make sure I’m not a criminal who was sent to kill you?”

“Since you mentioned it.” I pull up my Internet and do a search for Dima—crap. “What’s your last name?”

With an indulgent smile, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wallet. “Here is my driver’s license. Use that.”

I take it from him without actually reading it. “This could be anyone.”

“Da, but you’ll have to trust me when I say it’s not.” He takes my phone from me, and my heart slams against my chest. But instead of tossing it to one side, he starts typing in a number and name. His name.

Dmitry Vasili Romanov

“Your last name is Romanov? Like the director?”

“And the earl,” he says. “Our grandfathers were brothers. Take a look for yourself.”

I snatch the phone back, my hands shaking. “Holy crap. That’s you and—and—and… Holy crap.” Calm down, Chloe. It’s not like he’s the famous one. “Okay, so this proves you’re who you say you are.”