Page 3 of Craving Dahlia

I can’t helpbutimagine it. A rush of heat goes through me as I study him, my thighs subconsciously squeezing together. He’s inordinately handsome, but there’s something more to it, too. There’s an air about him, something that makes me shiver, tingles of desire running across my skin just from looking at him. Like I can feel the sparks, even from the other side of the room.

I’d been on the verge of telling Genevieve that maybe I should just agree to marry Jude. It’s not like my own dating life has been going all that well. I had one serious relationship in college that lasted eight months, before I got bored and decided that the guy I lost my virginity to wasn’t the one I wanted to be with forever. I wanted to get out there and try new things, and I did.

My taste in men is partially to blame. I like artists, musicians, men with an edge. The types of men that typically don’t settle down all that easily. My dating life ever since that first relationship has been a long string of one-night-stands and flings, peppered with a few men that stuck around for a couple months at a time.

I don’t think this guy would be any different. But with my father’s demands that I marry the J. Crew catalog cutout waiting for me back home, I can’t help but find the possibility of what could happen if I went and talked to him even more tempting. A last hurrah, maybe, before I give in to what my family wants. Men have been disappointing in terms of romance for as long as I’ve been dating, and a small part of my mind has been whispering since my father proposed the idea that maybe marrying Judeisthe best option. That maybe holding out for some passionate, fairy-tale romance is foolish when I could havethe stability of a good name, money, and my family’s support behind me.

Who knows. Maybe Jude would agree to live part of the year in New York, when Congress is out of session or whatever. Or maybe we could be one of those couples who live separately. I very much doubt he’s any more enthralled with the idea of marrying me than I am him.

The click of Genevieve’s heels jolts me out of staring, and my cheeks heat as I realize that at any moment, the man could have looked over and caught me. But he didn’t—too lost in his own thoughts, I suppose. Whatever it is that has him brooding in the dark corner, over a glass of what looks like whiskey.

Genevieve clocks me staring immediately, though, and twists around as she hands me my glass, following the direction of my gaze. She whistles under her breath as she sees the man, sinking back down onto the couch next to me.

“Merde. Look at him.” She swears lightly under her breath in French, and it makes me giggle, because Genevieve almost never speaks French. Her accent is light, but it thickens just a bit, and I press my fingers to my lips to hide my laugh.

“Right? He’sgorgeous.” There’s a hint of wistfulness to my voice as I look over at him again, and Genevieve grins.

“Go talk to him.”

“What? I shouldn’t.” I bite my lip, looking again. He’s still staring off into the distance, periodically swirling that whiskey around his glass. “Should I?”

“I think you should,” Genevieve says decisively. “Especiallyif you’re considering going along with this marriage that your father is trying to set up for you for even a second. Who knows how many flings with gorgeous men that you find sitting in corners are left in your life?” She shrugs dramatically. “You could be run over by a taxi when we leave. ThisisNew York,after all. They never look where they’re going. Even if you don’t get married, you shouldn’t pass up a chance to sleep withhim.”

“You think he’d be interested?” I bite my lip again. I’m not unaware of my own attractiveness, but this man feels out of my league. The kind of gorgeous that belongs to movie stars and male models.

Genevieve scoffs. “Please. Of course he would be. Look at you.” She waves a hand in my general direction. “Go talk to him.”

I still hesitate. “This is supposed to be our night out together. I can’t ditch you for a man…”

“I’d ditch you for him,” Genevieve assures me. “Go,” she adds, gently pushing at my shoulder. “If he doesn’t bite, I’ll be right here waiting. But for your sake, I hope he does.” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively at me, and I suck in a breath, grasping my drink in one hand as I slowly stand up.

I can feel eyes on me as I walk to the other side of the room, my red-bottom stilettos putting a sway in my step whether I mean for there to be one or not. But the man I’m focused on doesn’t seem to notice my approach at all, not until I stop nearly in front of him.

“Is this seat taken?” I ask, nodding to a low, flat leather chair just to the side of where he’s sitting. And then, finally, he turns his gaze towards me, blinking as if he’s been pulled back from a long distance.

“No,” he says, after a beat passes. “No, it isn’t.”

“Mind if I join you?” I give him a slight smile, the habit of flirtation kicking in. I’ve done this plenty of times, the fact that this man is the most stunning example of masculinity I’ve ever come across shouldn’t change my confidence in my ability to flirt.

Although what does shake it, just a little, is the look on his face. His expression is almost blank—it’s not even disinterest.It’s as if he was off in another world, and he hasn’t entirely come back to this one.

“Go ahead.” He lifts his glass to his lips, but his eyes linger on me as I sink down into the chair, the smooth leather brushing against my thighs just below the edge of my skirt.

“What are you drinking?” It seems like an innocuous enough question, but he pauses again, blinking.

“Scotch,” he says finally. “Lagavulin. Twenty-five years.”

His voice is rough, with the rasp of a Russian accent. It startles me a little—I’m not sure why, exactly, it just isn’t what I expected. But when I glance down at his hands, I recognize one of the tattoos on the back. It’s the same tattoo that I’ve seen on Dimitri’s hand—my friend Evelyn’s husband. A Bratva tattoo.

Does he work for Dimitri?I’ve never seen him anywhere around the Yashkov mansion, or near Dimitri or Evelyn—although I definitely don’t know everyone who works for Dimitri. But I feel like that’s not a question I should ask. In fact, I’m fairly sure that I should pretend not to notice the tattoo at all. I don’t think the tattoos are specific to one particular family, but if this man is going to be a one-night-stand, it’s for the best that I just ignore the significance of it, I think.

And if I ever run into him again, we’ll just pretend we don’t know each other. I can’t pretend that I haven’t been a little envious of Evelyn, getting to have a Russian gangster in her bed every night. I don’t think I’d want iteverynight, but once or twice…

I did flirt quite a bit with her bodyguard, Gus, but he seemed fairly immune to my charms.

“What are you drinking?” He nods at my glass, and I’m jolted out of my thoughts, wondering if I’ve been sitting here in silence too long. If he noticed me staring at his tattoo.

“Apple toddy.” I give him a wry smile. “It was on the themed drink list.”

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