Page 6 of Dancing With Distraction

I grab Vivian by the arm, pulling her to her feet. “Let’s go.” I throw the money for the bill on the table and make my way out of The Ivy, with Vivian rushing to keep up. It’s likely she’s hoping for an afternoon in the dungeon, but after that performance, I’m dropping her home and giving her a few days to think on things. Punishment is a dish best served cold.

“Dmitry, your father’s been trying to call you,” Roman says as we climb into the waiting vehicle.

I take my phone out of my suit pocket, and sure enough, there are three missed calls. He’s keen to hear my decision with regards to a marriage proposal to Vivian. He won’t leave me to follow his goddamn requests like I always do. And with this one, I have to take my time.

I place my phone back in my pocket with the intention of contacting him later. “Roman, have you made arrangements for the repairs to the car?”

“Yes, I’ll drop it at the garage later, and he’ll let us know the price. Marshall took the lady home last night. She resides at Chester Square, an impressive home, so I believe you’ll be able to recuperate the cost of repairs. Her name is Victoria Harding. I have her contact number and address saved so we can chase payment.” I stay silent, lost in thought.

You’d think a woman living on one of the top ten most expensive streets would be able to control her temper better and conduct herself in a more reserved way.

My phone vibrates and I groan, pulling it free again. “Yes, Father,” I answer, my tone harsh. I may respect the man, but I certainly don’t have any warm feelings towards him.

“I’ve been trying to reach you. You should be readily available for me, Dmitry, seeing as I’m contributing so much towards your London dealings.” I roll my eyes, knowing he can’t see me, otherwise, I’d probably end up with a night in the cellar with him dishing out his favourite form of discipline—a beating.

What my father doesn’t understand is that I’ve built my life here in London from the ground up, and I did it by myself without his interference. Any contribution he makes is purely one that benefits his own businesses back in Russia. However, I wouldn’t be stupid enough to point that out.

“Yes, Father. Sorry, I’ve been out with Vivian for lunch.” This news will please him and save me a lecture.

“How are things going? We need to make movements to finalise our arrangements. The sooner the families merge, the better our prospects.”

“Of course. It went very well. You don’t need to be concerned.” I’m well aware that Vivian is right next to me, and although we are talking about her, the last thing I need is for her to back out of this arrangement because she realises I’m only interested in what I can gain.

“She will be the perfect mother for your children, so don’t fuck this up, Dmitry.” The line goes dead, which doesn’t surprise me. The man has never shown an ounce of emotion, let alone bothered with greetings like ‘hello’ or ‘goodbye’. He’s much more concerned about me bringing shame to the family name by not marrying and continuing the line.

Tori

Phoebe takes in my fluffy pyjamas and blanket before frowning. “What are you doing?”

“Hiding,” I say, grabbing the carton of Ben & Jerry’s off the side and digging my spoon in. I smile at the blob of ice cream dripping in gooey caramel, my friend for the evening.

“That’s not going to work,” she hisses, grabbing the carton from me and taking it over to the freezer. I cry out as she places the lid on and puts it back. “You have to go and apologise.”

“Absolutely not,” I say firmly. “He can kiss my arse.”

“You’re going to kiss his,” she snaps, grabbing my arm and pulling me to stand. “Get dressed.”

“You always nag me about my drinking habits, and now I want a night in, you’re forcing me to go out.”

She snatches my makeup bag off the side and shoves it against my abdomen. “I’m serious, Tori. This guy isn’t someone we need to mess with. You scratched his car,” she wails. “You took off your heel and purposely scratched along the nice, shiny paintwork. I looked it up, by the way—it’s fucking obscenely expensive.”

“He was rude. He got me thrown out.”

“Of his own bar,” she screeches. “And now, he knows where you live. He’s got your name, which you so eloquently sang to his driver all the way home, so there’s absolutely no way he’ll ever forget it.”

I groan. “Stop telling me what I did. I’m mortified enough.”

“I’ll stop when you apologise. Seriously, Tori, you can’t pay the bill he’s gonna send your way. You have to make this right.”

I sigh heavily and head to the bathroom to do something with my pale complexion. “Find me something to wear. Something sexy,” I tell her.

It takes me twenty minutes to turn myself from hungover slob to sexy temptress. I’ve squeezed myself into the black little number that Phoebe chose because, apparently, it gives conservative rather than crazy vibes. “It’s a bit short, but you don’t own anything below the knee,” she tells me, looking me up and down.

I roll my eyes. “Who owns anything like that unless they’re over fifty?”

“He’s the kind of man who respects quiet women who dress well and talk nice.”

“Boring then?”

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