“When you’re not so exhausted, you’ll see where I’m coming from,” Pete said. “Why don’t you skip Dmitri and rest up?”
My eyes widened with realization. “You’ve already decided to cut the Sevastyans! My ‘assignment’ to dig . . . it’s busy work, isn’t it?” To make me feel better about Nigel!
After a moment, Pete raised his palms.
Busy work and babysitting. If he sidelined me, I’d go crazy in the next three weeks. How could I not be out fighting for my loved ones?
I burned to prove my value and contribute when they needed me most. My gaze darted up, landing on a beast’s lair. Words started leaving my mouth: “You know what? You’re not going to bench me. Because I’m gonna run game on the juiciest mark of them all—Dmitri Sevastyan.”
CHAPTER 2
Pete laughed—until he saw I was serious. “Karin couldn’t get a word out of him.”
Last night, when Pete had heard the Sevastyans were heading down to the VIP lounge, he’d sent me home and called in the family’s MVP for a milk-cow con—one of the most difficult of the long cons.
In a milk-cow, a temptress would whip a mark into a sexual frenzy, teasingly withholding intercourse to maneuver him into buying jewelry, cars, even real estate.
“Not a single word.” Pete shook his head. “Even though Dmitri was dateless, and she was on.”
If Karin couldn’t get the Russian to engage, then he wasn’t engage-able. But I’d talked a big game. “Then I won’t be wasting a potential mark, will I?”
“Don’t be pissed.”
I handed Pete my purse. “Pissed? Me? Haven’t you heard?” I started toward the stairs, saying over my shoulder, “I’m cold as ice.”
In reality, I was so pissed I almost stomped up the steps. But I controlled my temper, keeping my heels from striking the tile surface. Maybe I could sneak up on Dmitri and observe him unawares.
I knew the basics about him from Pete’s copious notes. Thirty-two years old, a resident of Russia, raised in Siberia. Youngest of the three brothers. A computer and math prodigy.
He’d graduated at the top of his class from Oxford, then founded a company that revolutionized aspects of business computing. He’d cashed out with a couple of patents, retiring a billionaire. Yet there were few mentions of him online—and zero pictures.
As I stepped onto the deck, I raised my brows at the beast’s extravagant lair. Fire pits lit the area. A hot tub steamed under a wisteria-covered trellis, and a mosaic-tiled fountain sloshed against the back wall. A fully stocked bar stood off to the side, unmanned.
I spotted Dmitri at the railing, taking in the city’s vista. Not another soul was up here.
I silently approached, noting details about him. He had a muscular build and stood well over six feet, even taller than my ex’s six foot three.
My grandmother would call Dmitri Sevastyan a mountain of a man. He’d tower over my five feet four.
His expensive clothes were so well made, I nearly salivated. He wore tailored gray slacks that highlighted his narrow hips and tight ass. His charcoal-colored shirt clung to his back and arm muscles.
Beneath the thin material, I could see his triceps bulging as he white-knuckled that railing. Like Bruce Banner warding off the Hulk.
Pete had told me he’d picked up intermittent tension in Dmitri and Aleks, the oldest Sevastyan brother. Perhaps they’d fought and Dmitri was taking out his frustration on others?
If Dmitri was so angry, why not go back to his room? Why not take his fortune and fly somewhere else?
In the next second, everything I speculated got turned upside down—because Dmitri’s head tipped back, and his broad shoulders rose and fell on a breath. Even from this angle I could tell he was gazing at the full moon.
People didn’t normally do that when stewing; they did it when they felt regret, or even longing.
A flare of pity arose. His family was right downstairs, but he remained here all by himself.
That was the thing about the beast from fairy tales; he didn’t want to be a beast. He didn’t want to be alone.
Dmitri finally released his grip to rub his temples.
Curiosity to see his face won out, so I headed toward the opposite end of the railing, letting my heels click.
He dropped his hands, and his muscles tensed even more. “How many times do I have to fucking say this?” he bit out, his accent thick. As he turned toward me, he snapped, “I—AM—NOT—GODDAMNED—INTER . . .” He trailed off, looking staggered.
I knew the feeling. Dmitri Sevastyan was . . . magnificent.
His flawless, masculine face swindled your breath and left your lungs holding the bag.
Thick black hair, chiseled cheekbones. Proud, slim nose and a rugged jaw. His eyes were blazing amber.
Beautiful, beautiful beast. I nearly reeled on my feet. I never did that, except as a ruse for pick-pocketing.
Once the angry set of his jaw eased, his lips went from thinned to oh-so-kissable. That vivid gaze of his roamed over my body from my heels to the top of my head. “You . . .” he breathed.
Make the talk, Vice. “Me?” I knew we hadn’t met. Because his face would’ve been seared into my brain forever.
“. . . are stunning. The sight of you has defeated my wits.”
Huh? Guys thought I was pretty, but in the land of long-legged showgirls and surgically enhanced models, it took a lot to stand out. (I’d always told myself I would crush it in Reno.)