Page 60 of Forced to Marry the Russian Bratva

“Waiting for what? To tell me I can't work with SkyMark?” My voice rises slightly, and I force myself to lower it.

He shakes his head, looking almost amused. “Not at all. I assumed you'd land the client. You usually get what you want.”

The compliment throws me off balance.

“Then why are you here?”

“How about I show you?”

“What?” I frown.

“Come with me,” he says simply, extending his hand.

I stare at it suspiciously. “Where are we going?”

“It's a surprise,” he grins, and takes my hand anyway.

“Fine,” I relent, feeling oddly giddy now. “But this better be good.”

Chapter 17 - Valentin

I lead Gela by her hand through the busy streets, and I’m thoroughly amused by how suspicious she looks. She keeps frowning at me like I’m about to lead her to some painful underground cult shit, when in fact, I’ve spent days arranging something nice for her.

But I don’t tell her that, because I’m a nervous wreck and fear she might not like it. I’ve thrown myself in the deep end now, and pray the night goes well.

“Are you kidnapping me again?” she asks, and her tone tells me she’s only half-joking.

I roll my eyes.

“If I were kidnapping you, would I tell you it's a surprise? I’d just kidnap you, wouldn’t I?” I open the passenger door for her with a flourish and wave her inside.

She slides in, and I try not to stare at the creamy skin that catches my eye from the way her skirt rides up. I close the door for her and shake off the murky, dangerous thoughts lingering in my head.

Today, there is no agenda. I’m keeping it old-school and clean. All I want is to celebrate Gela Jones, and it’ll be good for me to remember that, even while she wears that way-too-tight skirt that clings to every curve on her ass.

I pull into traffic and keep deflecting every question she throws at me.

“Oh, come on, just tell me where we’re going!”

“No chance.” I throw her a grin, and catch myself skipping a breath. The evening sun spins her brown hair golden,and I realize that in my forty-one years of life, no woman’s made me catch my breath the way Gela Jones does.

“At least give me a hint,” she pleads.

“Why don’t you figure it out for yourself?” I say, as I turn onto a street lined with neon signs and well-dressed people waiting in lines.

“Oh my god! Are we going to a concert?” Her eyes light up.

“Not exactly,” I say, feeling my heart flutter. Why didn’t I think this through? Would a concert have been better?

She narrows her eyes. “If you're taking me to some underground Russian rock band that screams about vodka and revolution, I swear—”

“Your faith in my taste is truly touching,” I laugh, pulling up to a valet stand. “We're here.”

The valet opens her door before I can get around, and Gela steps out, looking up at the understated facade of The Blue Note, one of Boston's liveliest jazz clubs. The blue neon sign glows softly against the darkening sky.

“Oh my god! A jazz club?” She sounds genuinely surprised as I hand my keys to the valet, and I feel my shoulders relax to see her happy.

“What, you thought I only listened to the sounds of men begging for mercy?” I joke.