The man she both loved and hated had promised her everything she could have wanted and more. If he’d said that months ago, even after Amalfi, she would have melted into his arms.
Instead, she was about to meet with a different man, a potential spouse, and she was trying desperately to convince her heart this wasn’t a betrayal.
She and Eric were a bad idea, drawn together but not like magnets. Magnets stuck and held.
She and Eric were pulled together like positively and negatively charged atoms—colliding only to ricochet apart in a deadly explosion.
She met her own gaze in the mirror. “No more Eric.”
She wouldn’t think about his promise to love her. Wouldn’t be distracted by curiosity around what had caused the seismic attitude shift.
No more.
Nikolett put her hair up in a simple twist, decided it looked too formal and left it loose, then went to change. She’d originally planned on wearing a pair of very-wide-legged pants that fit over the cast, but the voluminous fabric swirled and clung as she moved. The combo of swishy pants and the walking “shoe” strapped to her cast made her too likely to fall.
Given that Gus had already seen her cast—she was vaguely embarrassed with herself for sending that picture—she instead chose a tea-length skirt made of a jersey knit. The material was soft like pajamas and hung nicely. If she were to twirl, it would flare out. Fun, casual, and a little flirty.
She paired that with a boat-neck shirt in emerald green with three-quarter-length sleeves. Realizing she looked rather plain, she dug in her bag for her travel jewelry case and put on a set of slim gold bangles and small gold earrings.
She looked good. She could picture the way Eric’s eyes would have heated had he seen her. A look both appreciative and possessive in a way that made her want to fight him until he forced her to give in.
No thinking about Eric.
There were three possible objectives tonight: practice being emotional and physically intimate with someone who wasn’t Eric, assess Gus for membership, or straightforward fucking, no intimacy.
She wished she knew which objective was the right one.
Finally ready, she exited the bathroom, and then the bedroom, into the main room of the suite.
Iacob and Maxim were fiddling with a light and a picture frame respectively.
Nikolett spun on Grigoris. “No cameras.”
“They aren’t installing cameras.”
“I doubt they’re changing the light bulbs.”
“Mic. This room and the bedroom are miced. I know you don’t want to wear an earpiece, but this way we can hear you. Any sound of distress and we’ll be there.” Grigoris pointed at an almost-concealed door in the wall that connected this suite to the one he was using. Hers was smaller, one bedroom rather than two, and done in what she thought of as a classically French style with ornate chairs, beautiful brocades, Chinoiserier wallpaper, and gold and crystal accents.
A modern, toned-down version of Versailles.
“Any sound of distress,” she said slowly, staring hard at Grigoris.
Iacob snorted in amusement. Maxim looked up, then sidled over. “I didn’t hear that. What did she say?”
“The admiral is worried Grigoris won’t be able to tell the difference between sex noises and a cry for help.”
Grigoris closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Nikolett burst out laughing.
Zoran opened the connecting door and stuck his head in. “He’s in the lobby.”
Unexpected nerves tightened her stomach. She must have made a face because Grigoris put a hand on her shoulder.
“You don’t have to do this.”
“I know I don’t. I chose this.”
