Page 9

I take one last look at her and put all the things I wish I could have done to her tonight out of my head. The most beautiful woman in the room, and my father has already decided what her fate and mine will be. I’m hardly surprised.

Marriage is the best way for Victor Abramov to continue to control me, even once he’s in the grave.

“Would you like a drink?” I ask politely, and she nods, her face so smooth and expressionless that I can’t read what she’s thinking of all of this. It’s intriguing and makes me want to know.Of course, my father would tempt me with a woman who could so easily draw me in, who could be a distraction.If I’m distracted and enamored with my bride-to-be, he can make certain that the pathways I’d take to make the changes that I want to—once he’s gone—are closed to me. He can use what timehe has left to shore up his defenses against my new ideas, and when I surface from my marital bed sometime in the future, I’ll be at least ten steps behind where I am now… which is nowhere near as close as I need to be to my goals.

“A gin and tonic,” she says smoothly. “Two limes.” And then she leans in, a small, almost conspiratorial smile on her lips. “Honestly, I got a taste for rum the last time I was in the Caribbean. But I think I’m supposed to ask for a more elegant drink at a party like this.”

Fuck. Desire shoots through me in an instant. I can picture Sophia and me sequestered away in my penthouse in the city, sampling my collection of expensive rums together until we’re both tipsy. I can picture her giggling, feel her breath on my neck, see her spread out over my sheets as we tangle up together in an alcohol-soaked haze?—

I suck in a sharp breath through my teeth. I can’t allow her to draw me in. “My father does expect propriety,” I tell her stiffly. “I’ll be back.”

I can feel her eyes on me as I walk to the mahogany bar at the far end of the room. I find a crystal glass and make her a drink, adding two lime slices to it before pouring myself two more fingers of straight vodka and returning to her side. My father prefers it when I drink vodka in front of guests—he considers it the appropriate choice for a man of my standing in the Bratva. I don’t particularly like the taste of it, but as in all things, I do my duty as I’m expected to.

I rejoin Sophia where she’s standing—between two tall plants next to a dramatic-looking painting—and hand her the drink. She accepts it gracefully, her long, delicate fingers curling around the crystal. I notice her nails are painted a soft, neutral pink, short and blunt, rounded. Practical nails.

She takes a sip, glancing over at where my father is sitting and undoubtedly talking business. It’s an effort to not look atthe way her lips press against the rim of the crystal, and imagine them touching my skin. The movement of her throat as she swallows the first sip of her drink makes me think of what she’d look like swallowing down my cum.

“Your father is talking about our marriage as if it’s already decided,” she murmurs bemusedly, and I glance at her, surprised.

“Isn’t it? He said he intends for us to marry.” I raise an eyebrow, and she shrugs lightly, taking another sip.God, that fucking mouth. I watch her, confused by her comment. If she and my father are in on this together, then hasn’t it been decided for me already? Or is she playing me, trying to gain my trust by behaving as if we’re both being dragged into marriage against our wills?

“Well, he’s not the one marrying, is he? So perhaps there are other people in this equation who should have a say in the matter.” She smiles secretively, as if sharing a private thought, and takes another small sip of her drink. An ache spreads through me at the thought of her lips brushing against my skin so delicately.

Her boldness startles me. I’ve never met a woman before who wasn’t falling all over herself at the slightest hint that she might become an Abramov. The fact that she’s behaving differently makes me like her more. At the very least, it suggests that she has her own mind, and won’t just blindly follow whatever intentions my father has laid out for her. It makes me wonder exactly how this meeting, and my father’s intentions for her and me, came about.

I take a sip of my vodka. “So tell me, then, why my father thinks that you’d make a suitable wife for the heir to the Abramov Bratva?”

Sophia’s lips curl into something that’s dangerously close to a smirk. “How would I know? I’m just a pawn in this game, aren’t I?”

“We’re all pawns, one way or another.” I’m grateful for the burn of the vodka down my throat; it keeps me aware, sharp. This woman is continuing to surprise me. She’s keeping me on my toes, at the very least, and that intrigues me. “The question is whether or not we’re content with it—whether we continue to strive to be the one who controls, rather than the one who is controlled.”

“And which are you?” Her green eyes meet mine from over the lip of her glass, as she takes another sip. Desire rakes through me again; I can imagine the taste of the gin on her tongue, how it would feel cool and slick, sliding against mine. My cock threatens to stiffen again, and my jaw tightens. This is hardly the place for it.

I can’t remember the last time a woman had an effect on me like this. When I was a much younger man, that’s for certain.

“I do my duty,” I tell her coolly, reining myself back in. Banter and desire have no place in this arrangement—if it goes through. A careful distance between us will prevent the kind of attachments that could distract and undo me.

“You understand how the game is played,” she murmurs smoothly. “So do I.”

“And what game is that, Ms. Moretti?” I want to bite back the words as soon as I say them. It feels impossible not to be drawn in by her, to have a remark of my own for every one that comes out of her mouth. Life with a woman like her could be exhausting—or invigorating.

Life with a woman like her will require that I keep my walls carefully tended, lest she break through them and wreck my entire world.

She laughs softly. “The one where your father decides who you marry, and my guardian decides who I marry, and neither of us has much say in the matter." She shrugs one elegant shoulder. "Though I suppose I should be flattered that the great Victor Abramov thinks I'm worthy of his son."

I study her face, trying to read what's beneath her words. There's a hint of bitterness there, but also resignation. She understands our world, as I expected, but she’s not blind to it. Not the simpering creature I imagined. Someone is pulling her strings too, just like my father wants to continue to pull mine. A faint hope springs up in my chest—that maybe this woman and I could find a way to rule together, on my terms… on our own terms. But I quickly banish it.

Nothing that my father chooses for me is ever going to fit with my vision for myself and the Bratva’s future. This woman is a distraction, nothing more.

But I still want to find out what’s happening here.

I open my mouth to respond, but before I can say anything, a uniformed member of the staff comes to the door, announcing that dinner is served. Knowing my father’s eyes are on me, I offer Sophia my arm to lead her to the dining room.

When she takes it, another waft of her perfume sends a jolt of desire down my spine. I grit my teeth, shaking it off, and I don’t look at her as I lead her down the hall and to the grand dining room. Guests are already taking their seats at the long mahogany table, the chandelier hanging above it sending off rays of fractured light that glint off the crystal and china.

My father takes a seat at the head of the table, nodding to me as I take the seat to his right, Sophia next to me. There’s a look of calculation on his face that I don’t like.

The first course is sitting in front of us—a cucumber gazpacho with lime crema swirled through the top, and chilled white wine in perspiring glasses next to the bowls. I reach for myspoon, not looking at Sophia. I can feel the tension wafting off of her.