“Should we come here another time?”
“Absolutely.” My voice drops, gravelly with need. “I want to tie you down and watch you squirm. Spank that perfect ass until your skin turns pink under my palm. Find out if you like the sting of a flogger or if you prefer my belt. Make you come so many times you forget your own name.”
“You can’t say things like that to me right now,” she breathes, fanning herself.
“I’m already—” She cuts herself off, her body going still.
Following her gaze, I find Abram, dressed in an expensive suit, his mask doing nothing to hide his identity.
His salt-and-pepper hair is slicked back, gray at the temples, and despite being in his sixties, he carries himself with the kind of confidence that comes from wealth and power.
I smirk. His left hand is wrapped in bandages, a souvenir from the ice pick I drove through it.
He’s alone. Scanning the room with the interest of someone browsing a menu.
I set down my champagne and turn to Dinara. “Are you sure about this?”
Now that the moment’s here, now that she’s about to walk into a room alone with a man who helped destroy countless lives, every protective instinct I have rears to life. I think about calling the whole thing off.
She’s capable, but this is different. What if something goes wrong, if Abram recognizes her?
“I’ve got this,” she says quietly, her hand brushing over mine. “Trust me.”
“I do, but it doesn’t make this any easier.”
She rises on her toes, pressing a kiss to my jaw before making her way toward the bar where Abram waits oblivious to the fact that he’s already a dead man.
DINARA
I don’t look back at Kirill as I make my way toward my target.
I can’t afford to be anything other than whoever Abram Volkov needs me to be.
The mask makes me anonymous, unrecognizable. Between that and my hair pinned back, nothing about me should be familiar.
Abram’s attention locks on as I get close, dark eyes tracking every step.
The silk dress clings as I move, the slit revealing flashes of thigh with each step. His gaze drops, lingers, and returns to my face with obvious appreciation.
By the time I reach the bar, he shifts to make space beside him, body angling toward mine in invitation.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks, exuding polished confidence.
I let a slow smile curve my lips. “I would like that.”
“You’re new,” he says, voice smooth, cultured. American accent with the faintest hint of something Eastern European buried beneath decades of assimilation.
“That obvious?” I settle onto the barstool beside him, close enough that our knees brush.
“Beautiful women are always obvious.” He signals the bartender without looking away from me. “What are you drinking?”
“Whatever you recommend.”
His smile widens. “A woman who trusts easily. Dangerous trait in a place like this.”
“Who says I trust you?” I lean against the bar, bringing our arms a breath apart, even though it makes my stomach turn.
“Maybe I like the way you’re looking at me.”
