You Don't Own Me (The Russian Don 1)

He grins suddenly. ‘I like you. You’ve got balls.’

‘Whatever,’ I say in a bored voice.

His grin widens. He’s got good strong teeth. ‘If you’ve got a weapon hidden in that tight dress you deserve to kill him.’

‘It’s a uniform,’ I say stiffly.

‘No kidding,’ he leers.

I look at him with raised eyebrows.

‘Come with me.’

I step into the mansion, he closes the door, and I follow him into the Mafia Don’s residence. What can I say? Wow? Crime really does pay. Yeah, must be nice to have so much. Polished granite, marble columns, fantastic lighting, touches of platinum, sleek black leather trimmings. Nope, not my thing, nevertheless very, very impressive in a cold, masculine sort of way.

He takes me down a curving staircase that appears to go down at least another three floors into the ground. I have heard of such houses. There are more floors underground than above ground. He stops after the second flight of stairs and walking down a corridor, opens the door to what looks like a dimly lit massage room.

He flicks his wrist, looks at his watch, and says. ‘He’ll be with you in five minutes.’

Then he winks and disappears. I look around the room. Opera music is being piped in through hidden speakers, and it is wonderfully warm. I walk towards the massage table. All the different oils are in a kind of bain-marie on a trolley next to it.

Shit. Suddenly I feel really nervous.

I’ve never massaged anyone other than Stella and my sister. I take a deep breath. No, I can do this. I will tell my grandchildren about the day I massaged a Russian Mafia boss. I smile to myself. I pick up a bottle of oil. I twist the cap and smell it. Oooo… lavender, musk and something else … Rosemary?

I pour some on my palm and rub my hands together. The smell surrounds me. Very nice. I adjust my clothes. I know exactly why the black suit had been staring at me. The uniform is way too tight. I hear a sound outside the door and quickly put my hands to my sides and look towards it.

The door opens and this huge mountain of a man with a small towel slung around his hips comes in. Whoa! I inhale in slow motion. Jesus! No wonder Stella is all tied up in knots. He exudes pure sexual energy. Let me describe him to you. The first thing that hits me after his height and breadth are his incredible tattoos. They cover his body and they are not an untidy collection of random images, but each one subtly connected to the others. For example; an angel smiles at a tiger tearing into an impala, above their heads are intricate images of stars, demons and other strange creatures. On his shoulder a cobra hisses dangerously, its mouth open and hood flared.

The next thing that floors you are his eyes. You know those crazy drawings of Nordic aliens, with their hypnotizing ice-blue eyes? That’s what his are like. Piercing and magnetic. Shit. I can’t stop staring. Those crazy eyes slide over me, lingering on my breasts, and then pulling back, and narrowing on my face.

I want to smile, but I am frozen.

‘Where is …?’ He makes a rolling motion with his big, powerful hand. Stella was right; after six months, twice a week, she has not even registered enough for him to even remember her name.

‘Stella,’ I supply helpfully.

‘Where is … Stella?’ he asks quietly. His voice is deep and the accent is strong and actually extremely sexy.

I open my mouth to speak, and nothing comes out. I clear my throat. ‘She couldn’t make it. I’m here to take her place.’

He nods. ‘Ok,’ and going to the massage table lies on it face down.

I gaze at the splendid body, the muscles gleaming in the dim room, and think of Stella. God, I’m not surprised she’s fallen for him. I can feel my blood throbbing in my veins. I want to touch him. My desire is so strong it’s as unsettling as a fingernail on a blackboard. It sets my teeth on edge. It’s almost like making love. I feel hot and excited. My face feels flushed and I pray he hasn’t noticed my hesitation. I take a deep breath. Right. Swedish. Make it hard, Stella is saying in my head.

A light sheen of sweat starts on my body. I wipe my brow with the back of my forearm. I flex my fingers and move forward.

I pick up the oil that has been warming in the hot water. Jesus, suddenly the smell of oil feels too musky and erotic. I gaze at his sinewy neck and feel the hair at the back of my own rise. He is like an animal, a big cat. Sleek and dangerous. I put the musky oil back down and pick up a random bottle.