Lap of Luxury (Love Don't Cost a Thing)

I give my brother a cold smile. “Then I’ll be paying Miss Alders a visit.”

I stand up and head out of the office. Bethany is sitting at her desk, her long, dark curls cascading over one shoulder. She’s wearing a soft, silver dress that clings to her full breasts and narrow waist. Her velvety, blood-red lips part as she looks up at me.

Kristus. She’s magnificent.

The sight of her pushes even Alders from my mind. Would it be so terrible to just take Bethany? A pulse of heat goes through me. I’ve broken all manner of laws, but I’ve never abducted a woman before. I could take her anywhere. Marrakesh. Monte Carlo. Macau. I could dress her up in silks and furs and give her the life she deserves. Bethany should be kept in the lap of luxury. My lap, where I can keep her in my sight and do all the filthy things to her that I want.

“Is everything all right, Mr. Ravnikar?” she asks uncertainly.

I smile indulgently at her. “Everything is just fine. Just someone trying to get the better of me, but not for long.”

I can see she’s afraid of me. Maybe she’s even afraid of herself. Nice girls aren’t supposed to like getting fingered by strange men while they’re covered in blood. Nice girls aren’t any fun. I prefer the naughty ones. As soon as this mess with Georgios and the stolen money is over, I’m going to devote all my energy towards wresting Bethany away from Mikhail, and away from her morals, too.

Who knows? Maybe I will take her far, far away with me.

“See you soon, princesa. Be a good girl, won’t you?” I flash her my teeth, and stride down the corridor to the elevator. The day I take her can’t come soon enough.

Two weeks later, my lawyers give me the news. We’ve recovered just about all of the seventeen million pounds that Alders extorted without a peep of protest from the little Alders bitch. All except just under half a million pounds. My legal team tell me it’s a win. Mikhail tells me it’s a win.

It’s not a win. It’s a slap in the fucking face. That daughter’s got four hundred and fifty thousand pounds of my money, and I want it back.

It’s a gray July day when I pull up outside a church in a Hertfordshire village, thirty miles north of London. There are shiny Range Rovers and Audis in the parking lot, and expensively dressed mourners in the crowd. Miss Alders stands alone next to the priest, shaking hands with people as they file into the church. She’s wearing a black dress and a hat that casts a heavy shadow over her pale face. There are shadows beneath her eyes, too, though they’re dry. No tears for mummy and daddy?

I’ve got Boris filming the mourners, certain that the little bitch must have a dodgy lawyer or accountant acting for her, someone who’s managed to squirrel half a million away, the inheritance she doesn’t deserve.

I wait until everyone but Miss Alders has disappeared, and then I step out from beneath the trees and cross the grass toward her.

“I want my money.”

At first she doesn’t know who I am. Then she pleads that she doesn’t have the money, she’s just a student, and she hasn’t spoken to her parents in two years. Her whiny voice grates on my nerves.

“Not my problem. They were your blood and they’re dead, so now I’m out for yours.”

She quails before me and I can’t help but compare her to Bethany, my bloodthirsty little queen, gasping and shuddering in my arms. How I’d prefer to be with her right now.

I bend down close to her ear. “Pretty girl like you, nice tits and ass, you could pay off the debt fast if you work in one of my clubs. The patrons don’t even mind if the girls have a few scars. Makes them work harder, you know?”

She turns her face away, her breath coming in short, fearful gasps. “How quickly could I pay the debt off? If I worked for you?”

I smile broadly at her. That’s more like it. My eyes roam over her, and I like the idea of having this posh little thing under the bright lights of one of my clubs. I started them a long time ago, during the years I left my father and struck out on my own. They don’t bring in a great deal of capital compared to the rest of my business activities, but I feel a certain amount of affection for them and can’t let them go.

“Six nights a week working the pole, giving private lap dances… You’d be done in ten years.” I hand her one of my business cards with instructions to call me, pat her cheek, and then saunter off, whistling.

An excellent day. How pretty the countryside is this time of year.

When I get back to London I email the video footage of the funeral to my brother, with an accompanying message.

Mikhail,

She’s got money somewhere and we’re going to fucking find it. You know all the money people in this city. Look at their faces. Who’s helping the little bitch? Once we know who they are we can sort them out.

They shouldn’t have left their daughter behind. She’ll wish she’d died with her parents by the time I’m finished with her.

D.

Chapter Three

Bethany