Page 10

The Blue Diamond Lounge glitters in dim golds and rich navy velvet, like a velvet jewelry box cracked open to the city’s most polished predators. The scent of sandalwood, money, and too-sweet cocktails wraps around me as I slide onto one of the bar stools and cross my legs, feeling the sleek brush of my new black dress tug along my thighs. It cost more than I want to admit—and the heels even more—but after the week I’ve had? Fuck it. I needed to feel like someone else tonight.
Like someone bolder. Braver. Sexier.
I swirl the wine in my glass, watching the garnet liquid catch the low light as my nerves stretch thinner by the minute.
Steve is late.
Thirty minutes and counting.
I glance toward the double glass doors, then down at my wristwatch, then back to the screen of my phone for the sixth time. Still nothing. No missed call. No apologetic text. Just silence.
I exhale hard through my nose and down the last of the cabernet in one frustrated swallow. Then I call him. Voicemail.
“Hey,” I say, tone clipped. “I’ve waited thirty minutes. I’m heading out.”
I hang up, not giving him the satisfaction of anything more.
This was supposed to be a distraction. A palate cleanser after the emotional whirlwind that’s been tearing through my life like a damn hurricane. Between the surrogacy offer, the discovery in the storage unit, and the flicker of doubt that’s grown into a full-blown firestorm inside me… I deserved one night of no drama. Just a drink. Maybe some sex. Something uncomplicated.
But no. Steve fucking bailed.
I signal the bartender and start to settle my tab. I’m halfway through pulling out my card when I feel it.
A presence behind me.
A shift in the air. A scent. Masculine, expensive, with a smoky edge that tickles across the back of my neck.
Then his voice, deep and unmistakably Russian, slices through the low hum of conversation beside my ear.
“I would never let anything get in my way if I knew you were waiting for me.”
My breath stutters in my chest. I go rigid, slowly lifting my gaze to the mirror behind the bar.
He’s there.
The man from earlier. The one who nearly turned me into a Vegas hood ornament.
The stranger with the glacier-blue eyes and the kind of face that’s carved into legends and terrible ideas.
I turn to face him. My pulse is in my throat now.
“You,” I say, more breath than voice.
He’s wearing a dark suit, black shirt open at the collar. No tie. His jacket fits like it was stitched over his frame by a sinful tailor. And when he smiles, it’s lazy, lethal, and laced with hunger.
“I couldn’t believe it when I saw you sitting alone at the bar,” he says, his voice sliding over my skin. “I think fate has made our worlds collide.”
I give a breathless laugh. “Literally.”
His eyes flash, amused. “You look stunning.”
The words hang between us, unashamed. His gaze moves over me—my neck, my breasts, the hem of my dress where my thigh peeks out beneath the bar’s shadow. It’s not lewd. It’s reverent. Like he’s memorizing the curves of me, planning what he’ll do with them.
My core tightens. My breath hitches. I’m heat, and nerves, and wicked curiosity wrapped in a black cocktail dress.
“I’m Damien Romanov,” he says, offering his hand.
I slide mine into his. His fingers close around mine, firm, warm, slow. Not a shake. A claim.