Page 9 of Hunt Me

“How profound. I’m curious what you use as pickup lines.”

I was more than intrigued. I was fascinated. She obviously couldn’t care less who I was. That made her even more interesting. “Please, keep going. You must have a magic eight ball. How do you know for certain I’m after more than just a pleasant conversation with a beautiful lady?”

She threw me another much longer look, allowing her heated gaze to fall very slowly to my Italian loafers. When she finally allowed her eyes to settle on mine, there was a moment shared, one that I had no words to describe. More than just a blast of chemistry or kismet. Something entirely carnal.

“You have that useless, bored billionaire appeal that you believe most women find attractive. Expensive suit likely handmade for you by some fabulous old white guy your entire family has used for years. Shoes that likely cost more than rent for my apartment for six months, and if I had to guess, I’d say you have a Maserati waiting for you in the hotel parking lot. Your idea of a date is simply a conquest, a notch on your belt, then you move on, never to see the woman again. How am I doing?”

The mysterious beauty had leaned forward while cutting me down to size. I did the same thing, my reach enough so that we were only inches apart. Heat continued to build between us, creating a fascinating vacuum.

Suddenly, there was no one else in the room.

“Yes, my suit was tailored specifically for me, but I assure you that Margot would prefer not being called an old white guy. My father once told me shoes made the man, much like for a woman. I indulge in the finest leather whenever possible, although there is nothing quite like the feel of a pair of Nikes. And no, it’s nota Maserati, but a Lamborghini. But I will admit I also own a Ferrari as well. All in all, nicely done.”

“If you’re trying to impress me, it’s not working.”

“Ouch,” I said with a smile on my face. Few women were comfortable enough to challenge me. I found it irresistible. “Then I guess I’ll need to try harder.”

“Please don’t. That will bore meto death.”

“Alright. Now, since we have all the pleasantries out of the way, would you consider having a drink with me? Certainly, that’s noncommittal. You might even find it enjoyable.”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing?” After offering a pointed look that could easily set a man on fire, she lifted her glass, taking her time to enjoy a sip of bubbly. I watched her intently as she licked a bead of champagne from the edge of the glass. She was toying with me on purpose.

“This,” I said, waving my hand and meaning the reception, “is not my style.”

“What is your style?”

I leaned even closer, offering a smile as well as providing a sinful opportunity. “May I suggest you take a chance and find out.”

CHAPTER 2

Bristol

Mikhail Dmitriyev.

I knew who he was even with no other reason than reputation. Ruthless. Powerful. Dominating. He was also the older brother of the bride, Lilia, my former college roommate and friend. The moment I’d seen the single photograph she had of her entire family, I’d swooned like some schoolgirl, the crush creating fantasies fueled by the romance books I read late at night.

He was strong, masculine, and dangerously gorgeous, and I’d realized when he’d waltzed into the rehearsal dinner the crush was intact. Few men had such an effect on me and the men I’d dated had been more like boys in comparison. He also had a mysterious air about him, never allowing anyone to move past his suave exterior.

His hands were powerful and every finger was inked with Russian characters, providing proof he was Bratva. Perhaps they were meant to terrify anyone who dared cross him. I found them sexy.

He arched a brow, clearly amused with my attempt to act nonchalant about our encounter. When his lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile, I took a deep breath.

He was goading me.

Challenging me.

Tempting me with a taste of the forbidden.

I’d experienced men like him before. They were the kind who believed women should fall at their feet and once finished with getting what they wanted, the poor girl would be tossed aside like a rag doll. I had no doubt he had his choice of women; hapless girls who would do anything he asked. Or perhaps demanded.

However, given I’d been sitting at the same table for over an hour, staring at my watch while being accosted by drunk assholes who thought they’d found themselves an easy lay, I actually appreciated the sparring interruption.

Most men hadn’t managed to put a single coherent sentence together.

Unless you considered ‘Hey baby. Why don’t we hook up by the Venetian fountain’ coherent.

The wedding had been a reminder of everything I likely wouldn’t achieve.