Page 7 of Dancing With Distraction

“He’s rich, Tori. Very rich. And powerful. You just have to apologise, be extremely sorry, and he’ll let you off. I don’t know why you’re making this into a big deal. You wanted to jump his bones last night.”

“And then I realised what a dick he was.”

“From one encounter . . . where you were the problem,” she says, arching a brow.

“I saw him earlier, actually, lunching in The Ivy with his perfect little wifey and her perfect perky breasts.”

Phoebe grins. “Careful, you sound jealous.”

I roll my eyes and grab my clutch. “Please, I’m not jealous of her. I bet they’re not even happy. They look like the perfect power couple, but behind closed doors, I bet she fucks like a stiff, stuck-up bitch and he’s bored as fuck.”

Her laugh rings out as we step out and make our way into town.

While we stand in line, Phoebe instructs me on what to say and how to behave so I can get myself out of this stupid debt I owe, because quite honestly, I don’t have extra money after I pay my bills and rent.

As we pass the doormen, I lower my head, hoping they don’t have me on some list of banned drunks. Luckily, I slip in without any bother.

It’s busy, and I head right for the bar. Phoebe protests, but I ignore her. “It’s bad enough I’ve got to face this, I can’t do it completely sober.”

She allows me to knock back four shots before she cuts me off. It’s more than I thought she’d allow me to have, and as a warm buzz fills my stomach, I feel my confidence grow. I hand her my clutch and square my shoulders before marching in the direction of the VIP area.

I spot him right away. He’s with the woman from earlier, and she’s literally dripping off him, with her arms draped around his neck, running kisses along his jaw. He looks uncomfortable, like the PDA is too much, yet he doesn’t seem the type to endure anything he’s not happy with.

“Not you again,” the security grunts from behind the red-roped area.

“Hey,” I say, giving the same little wave I offered yesterday. “I need to speak to him,” I add, pointing to my man.

“Not a chance in hell.”

“Really? But you were so accommodating yesterday, I honestly thought you’d let me in,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. He stares at me with a blank expression, and I sigh loudly. “Okay, look, I just want to apologise to the guy. I scratched his car because I’m irresponsible and pretend I have my shit together, yet when I drink, I unravel and get myself into fucking messes. Take pity on me here, I’m humiliated enough.”

He cracks a smile. “Let me see what he says, but don’t hold your breath.”

I do hold my breath, watching as he approaches Mr. Rich. I’m relieved that his human necklace seems to be occupied with someone else, leaving him free to listen to my grovel. I keep my breath held while I watch the two men exchange words, and then he looks over, piercing me with those dark eyes that scream control, and I exhale. Jesus, what I’d give to lie beneath him while his eyes run over my body and his hand squeezes my throat. I give my head a shake, realising all too late that he’s approaching me, and now, my mind is blank because I was too busy conjuring up naughty images of him.

“Hi,” I murmur, but he doesn’t reply. Instead, he watches me expectedly. I hold out my hand. “Victoria?—”

“I know who you are,” he says sharply, causing my surname to die on my tongue. He makes no move to take my offered hand, so I slowly lower it, disappointed that I didn’t get to touch him.

“I came to apologise for?—”

“Dmitry.” The woman appears beside him. She looks me up and down, then folds her arms over her chest, eyeing me with interest. “Oh, it’s you.”

I go back to looking at Dmitry. I like his name. It’s strong and powerful . . . and all him. “I’m sorry for my behaviour yesterday.”

“Which part?” he asks.

I feel my cheeks redden. His stare is so intense, and now we have an audience, I feel added pressure. “All of it.”

“I’m surprised you remember it,” he says, arching his brow, and there’s a look of disdain. It reminds me of Marcus and that instantly gets my back up. This man has no right to judge me.

“I was drunk,” I admit. “Too drunk. The cocktails here are strong, and I underestimated my tolerance.”

“You lied,” he says bluntly. “You told me you knew the owner.”

I want to kick myself, but I force a smile. “I did say that, yes. I was mistaken.”

“Because I am the owner.”

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