As I walk through the doors into the warmth of the opulent reception, Cory rushes over to give me his customary loving welcome.
“Where the fuck have you been?” he snaps. “I’ve been looking for you for hours. We had a lunch planned with a patron.”
“I was busy,” I respond, not fazed by his fury. Cory can go fuck himself. I already appear every day for his shows. I’ll be damned if I’ll let him parade me around for more PR stunts.
“Oleg wants to see you. He’s pissed as hell,” Cory goes on, referring to one of the tour’s organizers. I carefully school my expression. We’d performed at a theatre near the man’s home the night before, and I know more than anyone why he’s upset.
“Oh? Why?” I ask casually, pulling off my thick gloves and punching the button to call the elevator. I need to get out of these clothes – I can’t breathe.
“Someone hit his place after your show last night. Cleaned out the vault. Took millions in jewelry. Clearly knew what they were looking for. He wants to know if you noticed anything suspicious,” says Cory.
“That’s too bad,” I reply. “But why the hell would I know anything about it?”
“Because you were up and about, moving through the guests,” he explains. “I dunno…maybe he thinks you saw someone who looked dubious. Someone casing the joint. Whoever it was got a damn good haul. Oleg’s wife’s dressing room was raided. His daughter’s. His mistress’s safe that he kept at home…”
His wife. His mistress.I can’t comprehend that the two women can be so comfortable sharing the same man. And he’s a nasty piece of work. Rough and battle-scarred. I guess he had a wild youth.
Cory is still talking. “Look, he’ll beverygrateful if we can help, get my drift? We want this man on our side, Sam,” he’s wheedling now, and it’s a tone of voice I find unappealing. I shrug, stepping into the elevator and turning to face my agent. “I’m serious, Samuel. If you…know anything…you need to share it. He’s important.”
I fix him with a cold stare. “Frankly, my dear Cory, I don’t give a fuck,” I say bluntly. His face sets into hard lines.
“Well, you should, Samuel. He’s Russian mafia.”
The elevator doors swish closed. And my blood runs cold.
Chapter 8
A Stranger’s Kiss
Arielle Nygard
On my way to collect Austin from school, I pass the bar where I’d celebrated my thirtieth birthday with a couple of girlfriends the week before. The night had started out great. Cocktails, music, a bit of dancing. But it took a weird turn at the end of the night, when I kissed that damn magician in a fit of rage and alcohol. My cheeks flush as I remembered the encounter.
I’d been so angry about…about…something – I can barely remember why now – and I stormed out of the bar to tell him off. I remember steadying myself with a hand against his hard chest when my high heels had unbalanced me. My palm itches with the memory. He’d grabbed my wrist and crushed his mouth to mine. I’d gasped in surprise and he’d taken the opportunity to plunder my mouth with his tongue. It had sent a jolt of desire all the way to my toes. He’d pulled me to him, wrapped an arm around my back and I knew I wasn’t leaving until he said so.
A long moment later, he released me, left me floundering unsteadily and breathing fast. I had wanted him so badly. If he hadn’t pulled away, I would have more than willingly given myself to him on the hood of his black sports car. In the middle of a public parking lot! The thought makes me cringe. I’d never behaved so wantonly with a man before.
There had been one guy before Steve. A night of drunken fumbling and an awkward farewell to the boy who took my virginity when I was eighteen. I met Steve a year later, and we dated for nearly a year before we finally slept together. He was always so gentle and considerate. Our first time had been special, memorable, and it was all thanks to him. He was a romantic through-and-through. I was a nervous wreck, being so inexperienced, but being with Steve felt so right, so natural.
He had arranged for us to go away for the weekend, to a secluded spot in the country. He took me for dinner at a charming country bistro and we walked back to our room in the light of the setting sun holding hands. We sat on the little covered porch, in a love seat, enjoying the stillness of the dying day. He kissed me, softly, gently at first, his lips rubbing over mine tentatively. I kissed him back, resting a hand on his shoulder as the kiss deepened. The intensity ramped up and I was soon short of breath. Steve released my mouth and said quietly into my ear, “do you want to go inside?”
I knew I could say no. Steve would never force himself on me, even at this stage. But I found that I did want to go inside. To fan the spark in my belly into a full-blown flame. To give myself to the man of my dreams. “Yes.” My reply was breathy, not on purpose, but I hadn’t had time to inhale a lungful of air. He stood up and offered his hand down to me, and when I grasped it, he pulled me gently to my feet.
Once inside, with the curtains drawn, just in case we weren’t actually alone, I walked into his arms. The kiss that was waiting for me was no longer soft. It was hungry. It promised pleasure beyond my wildest dreams. The last vestiges of my nerves evaporated like smoke as my body yearned for that pleasure. I wrapped my hands around Steve’s neck, my fingers clutching at the blond hair curling within reach, and plastered myself against his toned, supple body. He wrapped his arms around me, pulling me closer, but there was still too much space between us. The damn clothes were in the way. I stripped off the cardigan I was wearing and flung it unceremoniously across the room.
When that was done, I untucked Steve’s shirt from his pants and ran my hands over the smooth flesh of his abdomen. I felt him shiver at my touch. He pulled my dark green camisole up and over my head in a swift movement and smiled as he took in the state of my arousal. My nipples strained against the lace of my pale pink bra. He placed a hand over my breast and rubbed the tight bud through the lace. I groaned at the delicious friction. While he teased me, I unbuttoned his shirt, slowly exposing his washboard abs, his defined pecs. His open shirt fell from his strong shoulders, creating a storm-gray pool at his feet. We came together, flesh pressed to hot flesh, our mouths intertwining. My bra was the next casualty and I shrugged out of its confines as soon as Steve released the clasp.
He led me over to stand beside the bed, bathed in soft light from the adjoining bathroom. He unzipped my jeans and pushed them, along with a pair of pale pink lace panties, over my hips and down my thighs. His fingers trailed up my legs, my hips, my waist, as he stood. I copied his action, unbuttoning his jeans and manhandling them over his hips. His cock sprang free and I had a short moment of reservation about what we were doing. Those thoughts faded as soon as Steve touched me. He took my chin gently between a thumb and forefinger and brought my mouth to his. Our lips touched and all I could think was that I wanted more.
We lay down on the bed, a dozen scatter cushions creating a soft and welcoming cocoon for us. He touched me, running his hands over my bare skin as if trying to memorize my form with his hands. I lay back, moaning quietly, aware of nothing beyond the bed. When he reached my sex, he stopped and looked up at me with hooded eyes.
“Don’t stop,” I murmured. “Please. I need more.”
He continued his voyage. He slid a finger between my lips and found my clit. He rubbed me and my hips bucked at the sensation. He teased me then, with deft fingers, until I was writhing mindlessly with need.
“Oh God, I want you!” I’d gasped. “Please, Steve. I need you.” I felt him shift and I opened my eyes as he settled himself between my thighs.
“Are you sure?”
