Boiling Point (Crossing the Line #3)(9)

Erected…yeah he’d done that, too. In spectacular fashion.

Polly drained the contents of her glass and set it down on the high-top table, resolving to focus on why she’d come to Tossed, a nightclub on Chicago’s Near North Side where Reitman had used his credit card several times on his last trip into town. The tabs were always criminally low, as she suspected he talked his way into free drinks like the savvy grifter he was. Hell, the research she’d done over the years suggested he could sell someone the Willis Tower.

Reitman had started as a friend to her fathers, but after he’d made off with their “investment” money, they’d confided in her the subtle ways Reitman had earned their trust. He’d bought them lunch on occasion, giving them a false sense of his financial security. He’d given them nicknames. Called them to discuss personal problems that didn’t exist, to gain their sympathy. At a time when her fathers’ relationship had only begun to be accepted in their suburban community, their raising of an adopted daughter still relatively taboo, Reitman’s friendship had been a confidence booster. Given them a sense of hope. It was a long con that had lasted almost a full year. But in the end, her fathers were ashamed to admit, they didn’t even know where their “friend” lived, how he took his coffee, or if Charles Reitman was his real name. All they had left to show for the year of opening themselves up to a stranger was an empty bank account and crushed dreams.

These bitter memories—consoling the men who’d given her a home—were what she needed to remember next time Austin tried to run game on her. She’d think of sharing a Subway sandwich among the three of them while sleeping in cheap motels. The broken disillusionment on their faces when they couldn’t get Reitman to return their calls. The shame when they couldn’t afford to send her on field trips with her class. Yeah. Austin was cut from the same cloth, and nothing could repair those rough edges. Edges that were deceptively smooth and inviting.

Lies. All lies.

Polly ran a hand over her wig and turned from the mirror, intending to perform another casual sweep of the bar. Then she saw him.

Charles Reitman.

He’d aged since the last picture she’d managed to get her hands on, but was still attractive in a way that would carry him to a ripe old age. If she didn’t plan to kill him, that is. His black hair was threaded with silver, a complement to the laugh lines around his mouth and corners of his eyes. He wore gray suit pants and a starched white dress shirt, the image of a financial mogul out for some fun. His skin told of a recent tropical holiday, but Polly knew he used tanning beds on a regular basis. Around him, women were already taking notice of the masculine laugh, the confidence radiating from him.

A hint of what appeared to be awareness broke over his features…and then he turned and looked right at Polly. Later, she would say it was shock that rooted her to the spot, holding her legs hostage. Shock that he could feel one woman staring at him from fifty yards away, when others were watching him from a separation of mere feet. Perhaps it was her anger he felt. Whatever the reason, Polly froze. When two girls in metallic minidresses swirled past, a voice spoke up in the back of her mind. You’re the only one not moving on the dance floor. Dance. Do something. But the fear of failure was too great. Years of preparation and she’d lost her nerve. It couldn’t be happening.

Her line of vision was blocked when a man slid into her personal space. She only caught a glimpse of his tight black T-shirt and throat tattoo before he leaned in to speak beside her ear. “In my country, women such as yourself don’t stand alone for long when there is a dance floor nearby.”

“I guess it’s a good thing we’re in Chicago,” she returned, trying for a subtle peek over his shoulder toward the bar, but he was too large. A presence. Especially when he moved closer, obscuring her view completely. Polly lifted her right hand to shove the roadblock away, but his fingers closed around her wrist.

Slowly, the fingertips of his opposite hand brushed down the inside of her arm, stimulating the sensitive skin with such ease, she sucked in a breath. “Whoever this man is that makes you frown, he cannot do what I do.”

The arrogant words, spoken in heavily accented Russian, should have made her scoff, to tell her new admirer to get lost. But there was a hint of warmth in his tone that drew her up short. It lit up some receptor in the back of her mind that relaxed her tense body. Not a danger. He’d cut through the hypnotic state she’d been in, wrapping her in undesired heat. So much heat, its potency startled her. Why didn’t she feel alarmed by his proximity when they’d never met? Allowing people into her personal space had never been easy for her. Only one man had managed to chip away at the invisible wall a day at a time over six months—but she wasn’t thinking about him right now. She was in the nightclub to get eyes on Reitman, and this tattooed distraction could blow her chance, if she let it. “I don’t…I won’t be finding out what you can do. Please move.”

He laughed against her forehead, the sound dark and sensual. It bathed her face in mint, mingling with his fresh-smelling cologne. Warm rainwater. He was so warm, moving in front of her like they were already in bed, swaying in an almost imperceptible fashion, wetting his lips. Effortless seduction.

Her physical reaction was disconcerting, but not unfamiliar. Hadn’t she felt this way just this morning? That lingering yen for rough, pulse-pounding sex with her con-man squad mate was never too far from the surface, but perhaps it was being heightened by the liquor. Perhaps a need to get Austin out of her system? Close as this man stood, in the darkness of the dance floor, she couldn’t get a good look at his face. Five o’clock shadow. A nose that appeared slightly crooked, as if it had been broken once or twice. Pointless observations. After years of abstaining, this was the worst possible time to change course. She needed to get away and regroup, watch Reitman at a safe distance until she got her head together. “Excuse me.”