Page 77 of Sweet Animosity

I was a fucking liar.

CHAPTER 28

VAR

“What do you mean I can’t have the paintings?” Vivian launched herself out of the bed, but pulled back when she realized she was naked. “Dammit. Where are my clothes?”

I called out from my dressing closet, “They’re being washed.” I poked my head out and winked. “They were a bit sticky.”

Returning to the closet, I selected a light blue dress shirt with a darker blue vest for the day. Unfortunately, as much as I wanted to spend the morning in bed with my girl, I had a quick meeting in New York that could not be postponed.

The political leader in question was only in the United States for the afternoon to give a mind-blowingly hypocritical speech to the United Nations about his commitment to rebuilding his war-torn country. While also meeting with me about laundering UN funds received the very moment they hit his country’s coffers.

Selecting a cobalt blue silk tie, I tucked it under my collar as I reached for my platinum shirt cuffs. I didn’t feel the least bit guilty about the purpose of my meeting. If the United Nations or any country was stupid enough to give funds to a known war criminal with a shit record for human rights simply because he’d granted them oil-drilling rights, then they shouldn’t act surprised when he stole from them.

My job was the lesson they should learn.

Treated to a stunning view of Vivian’s silk sheet-enclosed ass as she bent forward and wrenched the rest of the sheets off the bed to wrap around her body, I strolled to the bureau to select a belt.

“Don’t ignore me. I’m serious about this, Var.”

Tucking my shirt into my jeans as I prepared to thread the brown leather belt through the loops, I leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “You are literally impossible to ignore, beautiful.”

She wrapped the sheet tighter around her body, accentuating her small waist and the swell of her hips, not to mention her fabulous tits. “I don’t see why you can’t just give me the paintings back.”

Crossing behind her, I reached for the porcelain coffee cup on the silver breakfast tray brought up by my staff. As I took a sip of the strong brew, I gazed at her over the rim.

It had been surprisingly amazing to wake up next to her warm body this morning.

The faint scent of shampoo was on her still slightly damp curls as she snuggled her ass against my hard cock in her sleep, and it was all I could do not to give her a particularly pleasurable wake-up call.

In a rather uncharacteristic move on my part, I put holding her in my arms for a little longer over sex. The idea rattled me still.

There was just something so cute and cuddly about her when she was asleep… and quiet. Like the moment an adorable puppy finally runs out of frenetic energy and just curls up in a little ball. It’s so precious and sweet, you don’t want to disturb it.

Unfortunately, she’d woken up in mid-sentence, pissed as hell at being forced to sleep in my bed last night.

Just wait until she learned I expected her to sleep in it again, not only tonight, but for the foreseeable future.

I set my coffee cup down. “I know, baby. That’s why you also didn’t see the deadly ramifications of giving five knockoff Mona Lisas to a bloodthirsty shit bag of a dictator.”

Vivian tripped over the long sheet as she attempted to cross the bedroom to me. Hiking up the sheet and exposing a nice bit of leg in the process, she stomped over to me. “That’s not fair! You don’t exactly have the high road in this, Mr. I don’t work for the mafia, I am the mafia.”

I cupped her jaw. “There’s a difference between us.”

Her emerald gaze narrowed. “What difference?”

“I have guns and a dick.”

Her mouth opened on a gasp as I moved to the closet to step into a pair of Taft jack boots with a gold and blue filigree accent pattern.

Her hand rested on her hip as she stood on the threshold. “That is the most misogynistic, patronizing, chauvinistic, sexist bullshit I’ve ever heard.”

“Then buckle up, sweetheart, because you’re not going to like what comes next,” I warned.

I left the closet and followed her as I secured the crocodile leather strap of my Patek Philippe Gobbi Milan Heures Universelles watch to my wrist. The blue face would complement my attire, but mostly, the asshole I was meeting with would immediately recognize it as a seven-million-dollar watch. I’d learned that men rarely try to haggle or be difficult when they knew upfront I didn’t need their measly millions.

In business, even an illegal one, it was all about perception. The ones who were truly successful never overlooked a single detail. A watch, a tie, the tightness of my handshake grip, even what kind of coffee I was drinking, would all send a message about who I was… mainly not someone to fuck with.

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