I can’t speak freely to Nicolai in the car, but I give him enough information that he knows things are going as planned. I’ll fill him in on a secure line on a burner phone after tonight, on our way to Russia in our private jet.
Taara looks at me curiously, her head tipped a bit to the side while she worries her lip.
“She isn’t a submissive,” she finally says.
I look at her in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“The woman. The tall one with the violet hair and dark skin. The beautiful one.”
“Yes?”
“She isn’t a submissive.”
“How do you know?”
“She seemed out of place, because she was the one giving commands,” she says. “It took me a minute to figure it out, and when she was with a second man, I knew. She’s the one in charge in that relationship.”
I shrug. “So? That doesn’t mean anything. It’s not uncommon for women to be dominant, sweetheart.”
“I know,” she says, shaking her head. “But it isn’t that. I don’t know. I can’t really explain it, I just—” she sighs. “Last night, when I spoke with the other slave, that woman came into the bathroom behind us. And I don’t think it was an accident. I think she was either spying on us or wanted us to know that she didn’t miss a thing.”
“Did she?” That is a little curious, given what happened last night, but still nothing I’m overly concerned with.
She shakes her head. “I have good instincts, Stefan,” she tells me, as if defending herself.
I smile at her. “No doubt.”
“And my instincts say we should watch her.”
“Noted.”
She huffs out an irritated breath. “You don’t believe me!”
I shake my head. “I do. But I need more than ‘she was in the room with us,’ and ‘she’s not a submissive,’ to go on.”
We pull up in front of the wide, circular entryway to the Boston Harbor hotel. I pay our driver and take our bags to check in. Our check-in is quick and painless, and within a short time, we’re in our room. I toss our bags in the closet and make a few more phone calls.
“Wow,” Taara breathes, looking through the pamphlets on the bedside table.
“What is it?”
“There’s like a spa here, a pool, a cocktail bar, and restaurants.” She flips through the pages. “They have a valet service, and there’s even this option to book a private appointment to get a haircut.” She laughs. “Oh, the lives of the rich and famous.”
But I’m not paying close attention, because I’m mapping out where we’ll be tonight at the Wharf. There’s an outside bar that overlooks everything, and I’m confident that if we get there at the right time, we can blend in with the crowd before we observe what happens. I have no doubt the finer details of the trade will be well hidden, but we can at least have a good reason to be there.
What if nothing happens? What if we show up and no one else does? What if the information she got from the girl is incorrect? I suppose we get our flight to Moscow in the morning and take it from there.
“They will even come to your bedroom just to paint your nails!” Taara is still leafing through the pamphlets.
“I’ll paint your nails,” I say, suddenly realizing that I have her alone in this room and there are several hours before we need to leave. After tonight we need to get some rest before our ten-hour plane ride to Russia, and we won’t have the luxury of being alone together for probably another twenty-four hours.
And I want this woman. I want her so badly my mouth’s dry at the prospect, at the knowledge that she’s just mine for this short time, that we’re sharing this luxurious room, and that what we have together is special.
She smiles at me. “Actually, I could totally picture that,” she says, sticking out a foot and kicking off her black flat. She peers at her toenails. “I could use a little attention in that area, too.”
I sit beside her and take her foot in my hand. “Could you?” I ask massaging my thumbs along her graceful foot. “A little attention, you say?” It feels nice to hold her slender foot in hand. I rub my thumb along her insole, and she groans. I smile at her. Damn, she’s cute.
“Oh, wow, that feels super good,” she says, putting her head back on the pillow. “Continue, please.”
I pause the massaging. “Ask the right way.”
“Please, sir,” she says, but the teasing glint in her eyes tells me she knows exactly what I’m aiming for, and she wants to string me along a little.
I tug her little toe. “Taara.”
Her face lights up and she grins at me, so lovely and winsome my heart squeezes. Holding my gaze, a few seconds pass between us before she lowers her voice and whispers, “Please, daddy?”