Page 75 of The Pakhans’ Curvy Prize

Alex moves from the corner, his presence suddenly filling the small room. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. The threat is implicit in the way he stands, and the way he watches the bartender like he's deciding how much pain to inflict.

"Burner phones," the bartender blurts out. "Cash drops. I never met anyone face to face. They'd text me instructions, and I'd leave information in a locker at the gym downtown."

"What kind of information?"

"Names. Times. Who they met with. Nothing detailed, just basic stuff."

"And you didn't think that was suspicious?"

"I needed the money," he says desperately. "I've got student loans. They were paying me five hundred dollars a week just to send a few texts."

I let the silence stretch, watching him squirm. Fear is a useful tool when applied correctly.

"The mayor's son," I say finally. "Zach. You've seen him here."

The bartender's eyes widen slightly. "Yeah. A couple times."

"What was he doing?"

"I don't know. He'd sometimes come in after closing and use the VIP offices. I figured he was meeting someone important."

"Did he ever talk to you?"

The bartender hesitates, and that hesitation tells me everything I need to know.

"What did he say?" I ask, my voice dropping dangerously low.

"He asked about a girl," the bartender says quickly. "A redhead. Said he'd seen her here a few weeks back and wanted to know if I'd seen her too."

Fury rips through me, tightening all my muscles. "What did you tell him?"

"Nothing. I didn't know who he was talking about."

"Describe her," Alex says from the corner. "The girl he asked about."

"Red hair. Curvy. Pretty. That's all he said."

Fuck. Zach was indeed asking about Marla.

31

RUSS

The cottage is too quiet tonight. Nick and Alex left an hour ago to handle business at the Ivory Wolf, leaving me alone with Marla. She's sitting at her desk near the window, laptop open, fingers hovering over the keyboard without actually typing. I'm in the kitchen pretending to focus on dinner, but I can't take my eyes off of her.

She is just so damn sexy, even distracted and worried as she is now. It's all I can do to keep from going over to her and running my hands through that fiery red hair, grasping the strands and pulling her head back so I can ravish those plump lips of hers. I want to strip her clothes off and cover every inch of that curvy body with my mouth, then plunge into her until we're both gasping from pleasure.

But right now isn't the time. I finish chopping vegetables and toss them into the pan. The sizzle fills the quiet space, but it doesn't help. Marla shifts in her chair, glancing toward the dark windows again. She's done that at least a dozen times since the sun went down.

"You're going to burn the food if you keep staring at it like that," she says without looking at me.

"I'm not staring at the food."

"Then what are you staring at?"

"You." I turn the heat down and lean against the counter. She's wearing dark fitted jeans and a flannel long-sleeve shirt. For some reason, the clothes make her look more vulnerable—and sexy. Her red hair is pulled into a messy knot at the base of her neck, and she's chewing on her bottom lip the way she does when she's anxious.

"You're not writing," I point out.