Page 26 of A Prince of Smoke and Mirrors (Billionaire Sanctuary: The Heir #1)

yet more negotiations

LEXI BYRNE

Nico barged out of the bathroom holding his phone and wearing a towel slung low around his hips again and nothing else, again.

I averted my eyes, again.

Jeez, a guy who looked like that should not be parading mostly naked around a hotel room, flaunting his ripped eight-pack of abs that rippled when he twisted or crunched (who looked like that in real life?) and V-slanted oblique creases ducking below his entirely too-small towel.

His towel didn’t even wrap around him properly. Every time he took a step, one of his muscled thighs peeped out. I suddenly understood why evening gowns with thigh-high slits were considered so sexy that Jimmy’s church had banned any of us girls from wearing one to prom.

Step. Peek. Step. Peek.

Avert eyes!

Plus, oh dear baby Jesus plus, a thick black tribal tattoo swirled over Nicolai’s heavy pectoral muscle on his left side, the design curving over his broad shoulder and almost slithering up his neck, then down over his ribs to his taut waist, sheathing his arm in a full patterned sleeve that stopped just inches short of his wrist.

The design would be entirely covered by a long-sleeved shirt, hiding all that sexy ink.

Whoa, Nellie. I could only imagine how much that tattoo had cost.

The way his muscles slid under his pale gold skin and that black ink was making me crazy again, not that I’d know what to do with him. When he’d been sitting on the floor freaking out about the wedding ceremony, I’d had trouble concentrating. I’d just wanted to look.

Yeah, I felt like a creeper.

But, dang-a-rooni. The artwork of that tattoo was hot.

“We need to talk,” Nico said, bending sideways to reach for the floor to pick up his suit jacket and socks. I’d dropped them on the hotel room’s thin carpet last night after I’d wrestled him out of a few things so he would sleep better.

Leaning sideways as he reached for his socks, his broad shoulders and strong arms looked like that Grecian statue of an athletic discus thrower. His hair dripped crystal drops on his wet torso.

He looked up, catching me licking him with my eyeballs.

Oops.

I looked pointedly back at my phone screen and tried to remember what I was doing, which was evidently trying to finish a five-letter word puzzle with only one guess left.

W-A-N-T-S.

Nope, that wasn’t it. I lost the day’s game.

Nico plucked the hotel phone’s handset from behind the champagne bucket on the nightstand. “Concierge services, please? I’d like to add my account number to my hotel room.” He glanced at his cell phone in his other hand and rattled off a series of digits.

The tinny voice from the phone that I could barely hear rose several notes in pitch and became much more obsequious in cadence, practically like singing.

“Yes, quite,” Nico said. “I need one-hour laundry service right away. I also need room service for breakfast. Plain yogurt, granola, fruit, espresso.” He held the phone away from his face and looked over at me, startling the heck out of me . “For you?”

Dang it, caught leering again.

I tried to pretend I’d been looking wide-eyed at my phone screen, which was blank and dark. “What? I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Breakfast. What do you want for breakfast?”

I hadn’t seen a room service menu in the room. “Whatever you said sounds good. Also, coffee.”

“All that, for two, and a pot of coffee. Make it for three.”

Hurried knocks battered the hallway door.

Nico hung up the room phone and strode toward the door, plucking his socks from the floor on the way. “Are there any clothes you want sent out for laundry?”

I ran around the room grabbing my underwear and bra from the chair, cognizant that this was a rare chance to wash my clothes.

I’d showered twice as soon as Nico had passed out last night, scrubbing away the sweat from wearing layers and layers of bridal gown in the stifling desert night. “One second.”

Most of my dirty laundry was still in my car trunk, but I had the clothes that had been in the bag I’d grabbed from my car’s backseat last night.

The miles of white satin and ruffles of my wedding gown were piled on a chair. It needed washing the most. “I don’t suppose they could dry clean my dress?”

“Not in an hour. We’ll have it done later.”

Nico took the laundry I held out to him, stuffed it in a canvas laundry bag he’d found in the armoire, and strode over to the hotel room door.

Which meant he turned his back toward me as he sauntered away with that white towel cinched low on his muscled waist.

His swirling abstract tattoo like a hurricane of spiraling arms was repeated on his back all the way to his waist.

Not just repeated, but mirrored, like it had been stamped on him from both sides.

Was it weird that the image of my pink tongue licking his ink-stained skin flashed in my head like lightning?

Yes, it was probably weird. I should stop.

I tried to stop thinking about running my tongue, my fingers, over the incredible artwork on his strong, muscular body.

I’d have to stand on my tiptoes to trickle my fingers over his shoulder, he was so tall.

Nicolai opened the door to the hallway.

A bellboy stood outside. “Mr. Romanov, we are pleased to have you here at Caesars Palace as our esteemed guest. The staff sincerely apologizes for not recognizing you and would like to upgrade you and your guest to one of our penthouse?—”

Why would they do that?

Oh, yeah. Nico looked like a high roller gambler, what with carrying around wads of cash and being generally crazy-reckless.

“We’ll need those back in an hour, plus one overnight toiletries kit. I mislaid my luggage.” Nico shoved the bag in the guy’s arms, closed the door, and turned to face me. “Now, where was I?”

His stern expression and efficient striding around the room was nothing like his relaxed joy at our wedding the night before. “You just said you wanted to talk. That shower really sobered you up.”

“The aspirin are kicking in. I have a proposition for you.”

Unease flooded my whole chest. “Nope. I’m not that kind of girl.”

His focused stare was almost predatory, and the British cadence of his voice was clipped and businesslike. “Actually, it’s less of a proposition and more of another proposal.”

“A proposal is what got us into this mess,” I grumbled at him.

“Yes, well, I was in a spot of trouble before I found you, but I think my drunken self might have hit upon a solution to it when I proposed. I’d like to make you an offer to keep you as my wife for a year.”

This version of Nico, standing instead of stumbling, his iceberg-teal eyes so sharp that his gaze felt like a knife to my throat, was an entirely different man than last night.

This was the first time I’d seen Nicolai Romanov even moderately sober.

Last night when he’d found me, he’d clearly been alcohol-poisoning drunk.

Even earlier this morning, the booze had been working its way out of his system.

Now, his eyes tracked me like a laser sight.

“You don’t mean that,” I said.

“I absolutely do. I propose we get a notary public up here and sign that marriage license. We’ll stay married for a year. At the end of it, I’ll need an amicable civil divorce and your help obtaining an annulment from the Orthodox church.”

His about-face on his reaction to the wedding was disconcerting, and I felt like I’d been spun around, too. “But you said annulments aren’t easy to get.”

He shrugged, sighing. “Last night, I convinced a priest to baptize and chrismate you, and then perform the sacrament of marriage without the preparation and counseling required before any one of those three rites. Do you even know the catechism?”

“The cat-a-what?”

“Exactly.”

“I meant to talk to you about how you ordered that priest around. That was weird.”

He looked at his phone, frowning. “Let’s just say that I don’t think an annulment will be a problem, assuming we can show there was an initial defect in the marriage. We do need to give them plausible reasons.”

Quick knocking pounded on the hallway door again, and a woman’s voice yelled, “Room service!”

Nico opened the door, apparently unconcerned that he was still wearing only a short towel that barely covered his swimsuit-parts.

A bellhop pushed the cart in. “Mr. Romanov, the staff again apologizes for not recognizing you. We appreciate your patronage of this hotel, and we would like to upgrade you and your guest to one of the penthouse suites?—”

“Yes, yes. I’m not sure how long we’ll be staying. We’ll let you know.” He shooed her out and closed the door behind her, turning to face me. “As I was saying?—”

“Look, Nico, you seem like a nice enough guy.”

“—remaining married could solve a rather unfortunate situation that others seem determined to involve me in.”

“And I don’t know what’s going on with you, but making sure that a drunk guy doesn’t get rolled or taken advantage of for one night is an entirely different situation than staying married to someone I don’t even know.”

“The facade would require a signed pre-nup, a few appearances at social events and other obligations, and as I mentioned, an amicable divorce at the end and your help with an annulment.”

“Yeah, I got that. But I don’t know, Nico. This seems wrong.”

“I’m willing to negotiate a substantial settlement to be paid after one year of marriage.”

“I don’t think it’s a good—” Substantial? Paid? “What do you mean, a settlement?”

“Financial compensation for your time.”

“Deal,” I said.

Hey, I was living in my car.

I owned nothing, absolutely nothing, except my old beater sedan, a few casual clothes, and that stupid froufrou wedding dress. I was getting money for food by busking with my living bride statue routine on the street in Vegas, all because I’d trusted the wrong guy.

I needed cash.

Nico carried a tray from the room service cart to the small table beside me and sat in the other chair, laid plates for each of us, and draped his napkin across his lap before stabbing his fork into the berries. “We should discuss the terms.”