He nodded and pursed his lips. “Okay, point made.” He leaned in closer, his strong musky cologne filling my nose. “But don’t I deserve it after buying you a drink?”
On cue, the bartender placed our drinks down on the counter and Mr. Professor passed him his credit card without taking his eyes off me. Reaching out to grasp his glass of Grey Goose, he raised it high, nudging his chin in the direction of my mojito.
Sighing, I lifted my glass.
Throwing me another heart-dropping grin, he leaned forward and said, “Cheers…?” His request for my name hung in the air.
Shifting forward on my seat, I leaned slightly forward, and informed, “Talia.”
Mr. Professor nodded. “Beautiful name for a beautiful lady.”
Tilting my head to the side, I asked disinterestedly, “And yours?”
“Brandon.”
Brandon, I thought. Such a normal, bland American name.
Bright lights from the dance floor reflected off the lenses of Brandon’s Tom Ford glasses. Clinking my cold glass against his, I toasted, “Cheers to you, too, Brandon.”
I took a small sip and the ice-cold drink ran down my throat, the strong white rum adding to my already growing buzz. I coughed. This drink was strong.
As I placed my glass down, I faced Brandon again, only to find him already watching me. “What?” I asked.
His hand moved to stroke his stubbled cheek. “I haven’t seen you here before. Have you just moved to the city? Pretty girl like you could do well here.”
Brushing back my hair from my shoulder, I shook my head. “Brooklyn born and bred.”
“Really?” he asked, and took another drink. Swallowing, he asked, “And what is it you do here in Brooklyn, Talia?”
My face adopted the same neutral expression I was used to displaying.
Shrugging, I replied, “I help run the family business.” Brandon nodded, and I returned the question. “And you?”
“Import and export, mostly.”
“Sounds interesting,” I said sarcastically, and Brandon dismissively waved his hand.
“Hmm … It pays well,” he said with finality, then his fingers found their way into the bottom of my hair.
I remained still as he stared at the gold strands and I took a deep breath willing myself to find him attractive. His top lip hooked into a crooked, disbelieving smirk. Dropping my hair, his index finger then lifted to trace the edge of my jaw. I felt the need to push his hand away. Even as hot as he was, I found his touch repulsive.
“You’re one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen, Talia. Do you know that? Do you have any idea how gorgeous you are? All that long blond hair, your tanned skin, your dark brown eyes…” I stilled as his gaze turned hungry and stared predatorily at my lips.
Pulling back, Brandon reached out for my drink, and brought it to my mouth, the sugar-coated rim kissing my bottom lip. “Drink, Talia. Drink this, then I’m going to taste it on your tongue.”
His free hand dropped to my leg and drew lazy circles, traveling farther and farther north. I tried to be into it. I really did. But I felt like I was betraying 221.
I felt like I was betraying myself.
Brandon’s head dipped and his bright blue eyes met me over the rim of his glasses. “Drink.”
Tipping my head forward, I opened my mouth to accept the drink. I took a small sip. I didn’t think I could stomach any more, and Brandon pulled the glass away and threw me a devastatingly handsome smile.
His hand lifted to stroke my hair. “Do you feel more relaxed?”
“Mmm…,” I mumbled, slightly jarred at how forward Brandon had suddenly become. His mouth approached my mouth and, to my shock, dusted a soft kiss on the corner. Pulling back, seemingly happy at my shocked-still state, he took my hands, and asked, “Dance with me?”
Brandon pulled me from my seat. I grabbed my purse, throwing the strap over my shoulder. Brandon guided me through the heaving mass of hot bodies, the two of us immediately merging with the frenzied mob the club had morphed into.
Brandon kept pulling me along, his pace picking up the deeper into the throng we penetrated.
I frowned, wondering why we were headed to the other side of the dance floor. “Brandon?” I called, but he obviously hadn’t heard me over the too-loud music.
I tried to pull on Brandon’s hand but his grip tightened and he still didn’t look back. Fear immediately drenched my body as we fled the dance floor and headed for a darkened exit door.
“Brandon! Stop!” I shouted, but my plea was drowned out by the sound of the heavy bass.
Brandon pushed through the exit door, dragging me with him until I staggered into a dark and secluded alley. Hearing the exit door slam behind me, I swung around just in time to see Brandon loosen his tie and crack his neck.
My heartbeats sounded like cracks of roaring thunder in my ears. I backed up, trying to get away, only to hit a wall. I froze, my eyes darting to Brandon … Brandon who was stalking … his expression no longer seductive and friendly, but cold and damn-right fucking insane.
Quickly glancing to my left, I couldn’t see the entrance to the alley; a tall wall blocked me to my right. But as I turned and moved to run, a strong hand gripped my throat and rammed me back against the cold brick, the impact of the contact knocking the breath from my lungs.
Brandon smiled, cold and sadistic. He shook his head at me, tutting. “You made that far too easy, Talia. Don’t you know you should be careful when talking to strangers?”
All the blood drained from my face as he spoke, his hand tightening its grip. Brandon’s all-American accent had vanished, only to be replaced with a thick Eastern European accent. It wasn’t Russian, but close … Georgian?
My stomach fell. Georgian.
“You’re … Georgian?” I rasped out of my restricted throat and watched as Brandon’s head tilted to the side and his blue eyes narrowed behind his black glasses.
He moved in closer to me and I lifted my hands to claw at his hands. “And how did you know that, Talia? How did you pick out that I’m Georgian?”
Christ, was the city now teeming with Georgians!
I gasped for breath and Brandon’s smile widened. “Now you listen to me. We’re going to take a trip.” Brandon reached into his pocket and pulled out a small syringe filled with a clear liquid. “But I’m going to give you something so you won’t try to get away.”
My hands began to shake and I started thrashing in his arms, trying to escape his grip. Brandon’s hold on me tightened to the point that I could no longer breathe. “Calm down, bitch. Or I’ll really give you something to be sorry for.”
I watched as he brought the syringe to his lips almost in slow motion, biting off the lid to reveal a fine needle. Gaining purchase on the syringe, he lifted it toward my upper arm and I closed my eyes, not wanting to witness what he was doing.
Suddenly a loud crash sounded and a strong hand slammed down on my shoulder, pulling me to the side until I was ripped from Brandon’s hold. I was crushed against a hard chest. My eyes flew open as I coughed and sputtered, air finally finding its way back into my oxygen-starved lungs.
Strong hands kept me upright. Jumping back in fear, I tried to push away from their hold, when I met a familiar pair of blue eyes. “Ilya,” I croaked, wincing at the pain of my sore throat. But Ilya, my personal byki, my Bratva guard, didn’t even look at me.