The Professional Part 2 (15 page)

At first, I’d thought the bodice didn’t fit; then I’d realized my boobs were supposed to bubble up on top like this. The pendant he’d given me nestled right at my cleavage.

This look had called for makeup, so I’d put on lipstick, mascara, and even some shimmery eye shadow that made the color of my eyes pop. I’d snapped a selfie of my getup and texted it to Jess. She’d pronounced me a
stone-cold fox
. She’d pronounced herself
heteroflexible
and very interested in
sexy
funtimes
with buxom redheads.

Still, having never dressed in anything like this, I was having qualms about going out in public. But then, I had no idea where Sevastyan was taking me, or even
if
he was taking me out. My dolling up could be part of some fantasy of his.

Was I nervous? Hell, yeah. That card had spooked me. Yet then I’d reminded myself of what exactly I’d wished for: to explore our darkest desires—together.

And, man, was I
game
.

Plus, his concession signaled that he was
trying
to make me happy. I considered whatever he was about to show me as couples therapy, team building for two—

Sevastyan appeared in the doorway of our room. I sucked in a breath at his heart-stopping appearance.

He wore a traditional one-button tuxedo, obviously bespoke. The jacket flawlessly highlighted his broad shoulders and muscular chest. The material screamed
expensive
, but the cut said
conservative
.

Understated accessories—stoneless cuff links, a pocket square of dark silk with a barely-there design, a classic tie—completed his spellbinding ensemble.

His clean-shaven jaw made my hands itch to caress those chiseled edges.

He’d retained just one of his rings for the night, that sexy thumb ring. Along with his tattoos, it was a gritty counterpoint to the elegance of the rest of his outfit.

Even in a tux, he was still my street fighter. This man was on his way to becoming mine, was taking steps—albeit strange and mysterious ones—to advance our relationship.

Maybe in time he could feel something deeper for me too.

Studying my appearance as avidly as I studied his, he murmured, “Anticipation becomes you.” He drew back to rake his gaze over me from the ground up.
“Ya potryasyon.”
I’m undone.

“I could say the same.”

“Come.” When he put his hand on my hip to lead me downstairs, I could feel the heat of his palm even through the dress beading. Was he nervous? Or just that eager?

“Where are we going anyway?”

“Dinner first.”

So we were heading outside of the mansion, and I looked like Jessica Rabbit. Oh, well.
See me, love me, motherfleckers.
“And then?”

“Patience,” he murmured with a squeeze of my hip.

He helped me into a sleek new stole—
fur again, Siberian?
—then into our waiting limo. As we set out, tension rippled between Sevastyan and me. I had no idea what he was thinking, feeling. But when I shimmied in the dress and flashed my thigh-high through the gown’s slit, his lips parted on an exhalation.

Our destination was a posh restaurant called Plaisirs. Its patrons were dressed to the nines—yet even they stopped and stared at Sevastyan as we walked by, forkfuls of food hovering in midair. They even stared at me.

The Nebraska girl cleaned up good.
Feeling more confident, I squared my shoulders and lifted my chin, which seemed to please Sevastyan.

Dinner—at what had to be the best table in the house—was a light, sensual affair. Lobster, succulent fruits, delectable truffles, petits fours. The wine was so sublime I couldn’t stop licking my lips.

Sevastyan ordered a vodka rocks, but didn’t touch it.

I was just tipsy enough to ask, “If you don’t drink, why order it?”

He released a pent-up breath, as if he’d known this question was coming eventually. “My father was an alcoholic. I do not wish to become one,” he said in utter understatement. “But in Russia . . .”

“So many things involve alcohol?”

“Exactly. Maybe I do it to test my resolve.”

He’d confided something to me! My heart gave a little flutter. We were moving in the right direction. And suddenly his comment about the irony of smuggling cheap booze made perfect sense. “Is your father still alive?”

“Nyet.”
Hard no. “It’s a subject I’d rather not discuss.” Softening his tone, he said, “Not tonight of all nights.”

“Fair enough. So . . . any hint about where you’re taking me next?”

“You’re soon to see.”

“Okay, Siberian.” Reining in my curiosity, I took another sip of ambrosia/wine, grinning against the glass.

“You’re . . . happy with me.” He sounded surprised.

“Very.”

“Because you think you’ve won in this, that I capitulated to you.”

I set down my glass. “Not everything’s a game, Sevastyan. Maybe I want us
both
to win.”

“Then why were you pleased with me?”

“Because you listened to me. You acknowledged that I needed something from our relationship, and I believe you intend in some way to give it to me tonight. You’re
trying
, and it gives me hope about our future.”

“Whereas before you had nothing but doubts?” A dangerous glint flashed in his eyes.

“Sevastyan, you control whether I have doubts. It’s in
your
hands.”

“It sounds simple when you put it like that. But know that tonight is anything but simple for me.”

And still he was going through with it. “I understand.”

He frowned. “You expect much from me. In many areas of our lives. But perhaps I don’t . . . recognize everything a young woman needs.”

What to make of this perplexing statement? Then I remembered that, beyond sex, he didn’t have a lot of experience with women. He’d never been in a relationship, had no siblings—so no sisters—and hadn’t had a mother since he was thirteen, or younger.

Did he know a woman’s body? Judges’ scores of ten across the board. But her mind? Not so much.

In a wry tone, I said, “From now on, I’ll speak up about what I need—you know, try not to be such a shy and retiring flower with you.”

His expression turned to a look of fascination, again as if I were a creature he’d never seen in the wild before.

We stared at each other for long moments, while I attempted to imagine his thoughts. Was he trying to decipher mine as well?

He dragged his gaze away to check his watch, then signaled for the maître d’. He said something in French to the man, who promptly returned with my stole and a small box that I didn’t remember Sevastyan checking at the front.

I turned toward the entrance, but Sevastyan took my arm. “This way.” Box in hand, he led me toward the rear of the restaurant, right past the other tables . . . then out a back door into a cobblestone alley.

“Is something wrong?” I whispered. “Did you see a threat?”
So help me, if some mafiya thug ruins my fantasy night . . .

“No. We go to our next destination,” he said with an enigmatic air.

“Oh.” Excitement rekindled inside me. “What’s in the box?”

He surveyed the area. “I suppose you can have it now,” he said, handing it to me.

With a grin, I tore it open, finding inside the most stunning mask imaginable. The material was a rich green that complemented my gown, the edges lined with what had to be real emeralds.

At the sides, silken flares jutted like a butterfly’s wings. Beneath each of the slanted eye cutouts, the material curved down into a curlicue, a tapering wing.

“This is so gorgeous, Sevastyan!” I eagerly gave him my back when he moved to tie it on. “Is this for a masquerade?” In the last novel I’d read from Jess’s collection, a historical romance by some author with a weird first name, there’d been a courtesans’ masked ball. The French heroine and her Scottish hero had attended, naughtiness ensuing. “Are we going to one?”

“Of a sort,” Sevastyan muttered.

Before I could ask about his odd tone, he’d tied my mask and turned me to face him.

“You’re incomparable,” he said with such solemnity that I blushed.

Who could resist falling for a man like this?

A better woman than I?

Then he pulled a silky onyx domino out of his coat pocket, tying it on.

My mind . . . went . . . temporarily . . . blank.

Once my brain sputtered back to life, a tangle of thoughts hit me.
Sexy. Rogue. Lava hot. Spontaneous orgasm.

He couldn’t possibly look more wicked. “Come along.”

As he squired me forward, I kept sneaking glances up at his face.

“It’s not far now, pet.”

I was nearly overwhelmed with curiosity as we made our way toward the end of the foggy alley, the
click, click
of my heels echoing.

“Here.” He stopped in front of an arched iron gate that looked like it was from the Middle Ages.

“What’s behind there?”

“Our destination.” He turned a lever and opened the gate, ushering me inside a damp tunnel. A torch lit the way deeper within.

“Uh, we’re going in there?”

“Second thoughts?”

I’d asked for this. I was prepared for a free fall with this man. “You won’t lose me that easily, Siberian.”

Was there a whisper of surprise in his expression? Had he thought I’d back out? Or hoped I would?

“At least give me a
hint
about where we’re going.”

“It’s a place I’ve been before.”

As we followed the tunnel, I realized we were descending below the city. I’d read about catacombs underneath the streets of Paris and was itching to investigate my surroundings, yet he led me ever forward.

Ahead was a circular chamber with more torches. In the center, a fountain bubbled, flames dancing across the surface of the water. Firelight flickered over the rounded walls, illuminating mosaics. The tiles depicted lusty satyrs and maidens in coitus, the flames making it look like the satyrs were moving,
thrusting
.

Next to a formal entrance, a shining brass plaque was embossed with four words:

LE LIBERTIN
CLUB PRIVÉ

I murmured to him, “Is this some sort of . . . sex club?” Wasn’t
sex club
synonymous with
swingers’ club
? My heart fell. The idea of sharing him—or being shared—stopped me in my tracks.

“Lost your nerve?” he asked, detecting my tension.

“I don’t want either of us to be with anyone else.”

He backed me against the wall under one of those torches. Firelight captured his face; behind his mask, his eyes were molten gold. “You are
my
woman. Mine. And I learned very early in life not to share what’s mine. You think I’ll ever let another touch you?”

I lifted my chin. “I won’t be sharing you either.”

This seemed to gratify him. “Then we’re in agreement. Any other hard limits I should be made aware of?”

I thought he was amusing himself with me, so I rolled my eyes, grumbling, “Just take me into the freaking club before I die of curiosity.”

Inside, a woman greeted us from behind a large secretary. She too wore a formal gown and a mask, an owl one. Though it obscured some of her features, her olive skin, lithe figure, and sloe eyes were arresting. “Welcome,” she said with a thick French accent as she helped me from my stole. Once she’d stored it, she told Sevastyan, “Your private room is this way, Monsieur S.”

How
many
times had Sevastyan been here?

He said something to her in French, then ushered me forward with his possessive hand back on my hip. As we followed her down an arcade, strains of lively classical music grew more distinct. We approached a set of double doors manned by liveried footmen, expressionless as they granted us entry.

Past the doors was a dazzling ballroom with a soaring ceiling, filled with formally dressed attendees.

We are no longer in the Corn Belt, folks.

Massive flower arrangements perfumed the air. Rich tapestries graced the walls, depicting more sensual scenes. Matching statues of Venus—which looked like they belonged in museums—flanked a grand staircase. Along the steps, living human statues with skin dusted gold held candelabras to light the way.

The decadent velvets, swathes of silk, and candlelit grandeur made me feel like I’d walked into a French period film. I finally found my voice to murmur, “How old is this place?”

“Centuries.”

With that one word, he might as well have shot me full of adrenaline. Ah, the
history
—I breathed it in. Endeavoring to note every detail, I gawked all around me.

As we passed through the throng of attractive partygoers, I realized no one was getting down and dirty. There were drinks and laughter and flirting, but nothing different than you’d see in a regular club.

Was it just me, or were we collecting lots of stares? Sevastyan seemed to be growing increasingly agitated.

“What’s wrong?” I asked him.

“They think you’re available. That you don’t belong to me.”

“Why?”

“Because you lack a collar.”

Collar and keep you
. “Um, that’s hot—in a totally appalling kind of way.” But hey, this was all pretend, all gossamer fantasy and silken decadence, right? Noticing that many of the women did, in fact, sport collars, I asked him in a fake petulant tone, “How come I don’t get a collar?”

But he was serious when he answered, “You haven’t earned one.” Right when I was about to flare, he added, “And I haven’t earned the right to give it to you.” He looked so conflicted behind his domino.

A fit, middle-aged man swept in front of us. He wore an elephant mask with an exaggerated trunk.
Subtle, buddy, reaaallll subtle
. He started to speak, but Sevastyan just gave him his signature killing look—the one that made men quake.

We weren’t stopped again.

The owl woman was waiting for us at that grand set of stairs. We followed her up to a second-floor landing, then made our way down a hallway lit by gas lamps.