“He can bring it to me,” I say smoothly.
“I’ll bring it—”
“Uh uh,” I interrupt. “Stay out of this. Zane can figure it out. He’s a smart kid.”
She stares at me for a moment then nods.
I open the door for her. “Don’t come back here again,” I say when she steps close to pass.
She stops and looks up at me. I have the irrational urge to count the freckles that dust her cheekbones. “Or what?” I see that flash of temper again. “You'll beat me up too?”
“You?” I raise my brows, then allow some of the heat she rouses in me to show in my gaze. “No, Freckles,” I murmur in a suggestive purr. “I'll pin your hands to the wall and spank that cute little ass of yours until I hear you beg.”
Her eyes dilate, berry lips part. “B-beg for what?” she asks.
I hold in my chuckle. “What would you beg me for, Chelle?”
She draws in a sharp breath. “You’re…”
I cock my head when she trails off, expecting an insult with expletives.
“Bold.”
My lips twist into a surprised smile. “And you’re interested.” I allow my gaze to drop to the peaked buds of her nipples showing through her sweater.
She looks, too, and flushes. Her gaze sweeps up my tattooed forearms and across my shoulder to land at my throat. The moment she manages to lift it enough to meet my gaze, electricity pulses between us.
My dick gets harder than stone. She freezes.
Oh, Zane. I just had the most wicked idea of how you can pay off your debt.
Except I don’t pay for sex. Nor do I allow it to be used as currency.
I have a personal rule about it just to keep things clean.
Besides, Adrian would probably try to put my head in a meat grinder if he did. He came to America to free his sister from human traffickers, a horrific chapter she’s still barely recovering from.
I watch as a tremor runs through Chelle’s small frame, but to my disappointment, it seems to shake her back to reality. She pushes past me and out into the hallway.
“Don’t come back,” I remind her.
She flips me the bird without turning as she walks away.
I stay in the doorway, watching her cute ass twitch as she walks, drinking in all that is Chelle Goldberg. Fiery, adorable, and very fuckable Chelle.
Damn.
I want her.
She’s lucky I had enough scruples to let her walk away.
Next time she might not be so lucky.
Chelle
I hit the elevator button eight times in four seconds, fully aware of Nikolai’s gaze setting my back on fire.
What just happened?
I’m reeling from the interaction.
The elevator door opens, and I launch into it. Of course, when I turn to push the button, Nikolai’s still standing there, watching me with amusement.
Damn him.
I just got my ass handed to me by a mobster. That much I sort of anticipated, but it was the way it went down that shocked me.
I expected Nikolai to be terrifying. I pictured gold teeth, chains around his neck, and a revolver pointed at my head—something like that. And he certainly does seem dangerous. But I didn’t expect the suave player persona. The good looks. The charm.
His arms are covered in tattoos, but he wore slacks and a nice dress shirt, open at the throat. No chains. Nice teeth. Perfect teeth, actually, and a Hollywood smile.
Nikolai is downright hot.
What would you beg me for, Chelle?
I’m not sure I’ll be able to get that suggestive growl out of my mind. Nor can I banish his threat. He wants to spank me?
Um, yes please.
Even now, alone in the elevator, the memory makes me blush. I’ll probably be blushing until Thanksgiving.
I hate myself for being so turned on by those words. By him.
What just happened back there?
That wasn’t the most unnerving part. It was the way he talked about Zane—like he really knew him. Like he maybe even liked him. He seemed concerned about Zane’s substance abuse problem. The one I’d been hoping didn’t exist. It shocked me awake to hear it named out loud.
Zane is into drugs. I’d been afraid of that, but honestly? I’d been avoiding that nugget of truth. It caught me off guard, so when Nikolai gave me his Dr. Phil advice on letting Zane fail, I took it in. As much as I hate to admit it, he may be right.
I can’t believe I’m taking relationship advice from a loan shark in the Russian mafiya.
The elevator doors open, and I step out. A cold wind blows between the buildings of downtown Chicago, making me wish I’d worn a jacket. I wrap my arms around my waist as I jog toward the parking lot where I left my car. I couldn’t afford the rate at the hotel garage—it was astronomical. As I round the bend, I stop and look up at the building, as if I might see through the walls and floors to catch another glimpse of my brother’s persecutor.