When he shook her soft hand, sparks traveled up his arm, then straight down to Mr. Johnson.
Glad he still works.
Beyond the attraction, her sentence structure was very American. She mightsoundRussian, but he wondered how Russian No Name actually was. Her dark eyes were drilling into his, the intensity in her gaze having an electrifying effect on him. Yes, he loved women, but it washewho had an effect onthem. This was a completely new—and exhilarating—experience for him.
“I have two questions,” he said.
“Don’t count on me answering,” she replied, her accent gliding through the air between them.
“Are we dead and in hell?”
She chuffed out a laugh, her smile lighting up her eyes, the reaction so immediate and intense, a growl flew from his throat.
She’s hot.
Then, as if she was self-conscious, her smile dropped like a bungee jumper off a bridge.
Dammit.
“No, we are not dead,” she replied. “Why do you say that?”
“It’s a long story.”
She pressed the glass to her lips, let the liquid fill her mouth. He got lost in the way she savored the wine before swallowing it down. And his thoughts jumped to her full lips over his swollen cock.
“Do you like the wine?” he asked as his dick twitched in his pants.
“It’s perfect,” she replied. “That’s your follow-on question to ‘are we in hell?’”
He cracked a smile. She glanced at his mouth, then back into his eyes.
The energy swirled around them, the chatter faded away, the music slipped into the background. Nothing but this Russian woman without a name and the constant throbbing in his thigh.
But Mr. Johnson worked. That was good. Damn good.
“Did you poison my wine?” he asked.
The playfulness in her eyes gave way to a coldness that made him regret asking the question.
“Why would you ask me that?”
“Just answer me,” he pressed.
“I did not.” She took another sip, set down her glass. “That was rude. Are you always rude or rude because I’m Russian?”
“Always,” he replied. “I’m a difficult person.”
She broke eye contact, stared straight ahead. Normally, women went along with his bad behavior, but she shut him down.
She waved over the bartender. “I’m settling up.”
“Let me make it up to you,” Gabriel said.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said as the bartender returned with the tab. She slid her credit card into the billfold, handed it back to him.
“Are you staying at the hotel?” asked the employee.
“What difference does that make?” she asked.
