“What? I’m helping. Building your cover story. Unless you’d rather I tell them about your underground chess gambling ring—”
He yanks me sideways, practically carrying me now. My bare feet barely touch the ground.
“Put me down or lose that hand.”
“Make me.”
His fingers press into my skin, hot through the thick fabric. My body goes rigid—partly from anger, partly from something else I refuse to acknowledge.
He spins me to face him, one arm locked around my waist, the other hand sliding up my spine. I snap my teeth at his jaw, missing by inches.
“Bite me again, and I’ll show you how I like to play,malishka.” His lips brush my ear, voice dropping to gravel. “Though something tells me you already know exactly what you’re doing.”
Fuck. My skin burns everywhere he touches. I want to knee him in the balls. I want to— No. No, I don’t want anything except to get away from him and his stupid hands and his stupid mouth and—
“I’d rather bite off my own tongue.”
“Now, that would be a waste of a very talented muscle.”
“Put. Me. Down.”
“Be a good girl, and maybe I will.” His grip tightens, fingers digging into soft flesh. “Though we both know you’re anything but good.”
I thrash against him, which only makes him chuckle. The sound vibrates through his chest and straight into places that have no business reacting to him.
“Fuck you.”
“Promises, promises.”
I twist my body, fingers finding the pressure point in his wrist that should make any normal man drop like a sack of potatoes. Should. Instead, he just looks amused. Great.
“Nice try,malishka.” His grip tightens further. “But I’ve survived worse than your little parlor tricks.”
I move my hand.
“Keep fighting me, and we’ll take the scenic route to Mitch and Elijah.”
That stops me cold. Bastard. He knows exactly where to hit.
“I hate you.”
“So you keep saying.” He finally sets me down, his hands lingering longer than necessary. “Yet here we are.”
I turn, ready to launch another string of creative threats, when I catch the gleaming letters above: “Chanel.”
My throat tightens. How many times had I walked through these doors, tossing thousand-dollar bills around like confetti? Back when my last name still meant something. Before Dadtraded our family’s legacy for empty promises and cheaper thrills.
“Move.” Leonid’s hand finds my lower back again.
I dig my heels in, just to be difficult. “What’s wrong with Target?”
“Everything.” He leans close, and I’m about to introduce his groin to my knee when the door slides open. A blast of Chanel No. 5 stops me mid-swing.
“Welcome to Chanel.” The voice drips honey and commission dreams. I turn to find a blonde Amazon in four-inch pumps, her pencil skirt so tight it’s a miracle she can breathe, let alone walk. Her name tag reads “Vivian,” and she’s looking at Leonid like he’s her next meal ticket.
The urge to knee someone in the groin intensifies. Just a different target now.
“How can I help you today?” She bats lashes that definitely aren’t real, twirling a perfect blonde curl. “We just got in the most amazing new collection—”
