Page 64 of Red Fury

The black dress she is wearing hugs every curve of her body like it was painted on, ending at mid-thigh to show off those incredible legs. From this angle, I can see that the back dips dangerously low, exposing the smooth expanse of her spine and the dimples just above her ass.

She’s not wearing a bra, and her tits are perfection to the point where my mouth waters. Her short hair is styled in a way that makes her look sophisticated and so fucking sexy.

She’s exquisite. I’m pretty sure my mouth has dropped open. I might even be drooling.

But then reality crashes back in, and anger surges through me, alongside the unwanted desire.

What the hell is she doing here?

What the hell is this?

Shadow has some serious explaining to do.

20

Shadow

I put down my drink and take in Roman Kozlov. So this is the male that Fury, Webb, and Thompson are meeting with. Interesting.

To say I am taken aback is an understatement. What are the odds of running into him, of all people?

I don’t believe in coincidence, but…who knows? Maybe this is one of those rare times when it has happened.

I stare at Roman, my mind racing as I try to process this development. The top question burning through my thoughts right now is, why the hell are they meeting with the club owner? What could they possibly hope to achieve here? This isn’t some government facility or military installation; it’s a nightclub. Albeit an incredibly expensive, exclusive one.

There must be more here than meets the eye.

Roman Kozlov is certainly very interesting, to say the least.

“And?” Roman says, that knowing smile still playing on his lips. “Will you join me for a drink in the VIP section while you wait for your friends?”

My pulse quickens. This is exactly what I need – access to the VIP area where I can observe Fury and his team without them knowing I’m here. At least, not immediately. I need to find out what the hell is going on.

“I would love that,” I say, extending my hand, smiling. “I’m Claire, by the way.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Claire.” He takes my hand in both of his, the handshake lasting longer than necessary.

The first thing I notice is how soft his hands are. Nothing like Fury’s calloused palms and strong grip that speak of hard work and physical training. These are the hands of a man who’s never done manual labor in his life, manicured and smooth as silk.

As he releases my hand, I catch sight of what looks like a nasty scar on the side of his neck, partially hidden by his collar. The mark is jagged and old, like something tried to tear his throat out years ago. I quickly avert my gaze before he notices me staring.

“Shall we?” he asks, placing his hand on my lower back, fingers splayed.

I glance back at the abandoned whiskey sitting on the bar counter, but Roman doesn’t seem concerned about leaving it behind. Clearly, money isn’t an object for him.

“Sure,” I say, and his hand presses against me, a little firmer this time, guiding me toward the elevator.

Two massive males fall into step behind us. His security detail, I realize. They’re even larger than the bouncers at the entrance, and there’s something about the way they move that suggests military or law enforcement backgrounds.

Who the hell is this guy?

The bouncers stationed at the VIP elevator immediately straighten when they see Roman approaching. One of them says something in what sounds like Russian. I’m pretty sure it’s a greeting. They both drop their gazes in a form of submission.

Roman responds with a curt nod, and we step into the elevator.

It doesn’t take long before we reach the VIP floor, and I immediately spot my targets.

Webb, Thompson, and Fury are seated at a prime table with an excellent view of the dance floor below. Thompson is chatting animatedly with a stunning redhead in a green dress, while Webb is pouring himself a glass of champagne.