Page 3 of Fatal Bonds

“Well, probably because you don’t belong here,” I tease, leaning in to stage whisper conspiratorially. I don’t make a practice of flirting with older men, but I can’t see the harm when he just saved my ass and I need to wait for my drinks anyway.

His dark eyebrows rise, his eyes twinkling beneath the club’s starlit ceiling. “But you do.”

It’s not a question. He states it like a fact, and my stomach flutters.

“Good thing, too,” he adds casually.

“Oh? And why’s that?” Another shiver races up my spine.

“You see those dancers?” He gestures toward the cages below that I’ve had a hard time taking my eyes off of for longer than a few minutes at a time all night. “That’s what happens to people who go where they shouldn’t in this club. And I would hate to see you locked in one of those, dancing for the masses.” His gaze would say the exact opposite as it roams boldly down my body before returning to my face.

“Bullshit,” I blurt, then bite my lip at calling him out so bluntly.

He gives another dark chuckle, the sound vibrating through my body like an earthquake as his amusement grows. “Join me.”

Another statement, not a question, and I get the impression that he’s not used to giving people an option—or hearing the word ‘no.’ I catch a glimpse of several more expensively dressed men sitting at the VIP table where I first noticed Maks. They look almost as intimidating as he does, though maybe not quite as muscular beneath their tailored suits.

“I can’t. I’m here with friends,” I say quickly, brushing off the invitation. I can’t quite keep the hint of regret out of my voice, and it catches me by surprise to realize I might genuinely want to stay and flirt.

“Then at least let me buy you a drink,” he presses.

He’s close enough now that I can feel the heat radiating off his body, and I’m tempted to lean into it. I have no doubt this handsome older man with the sexy Russian accent would know plenty of ways to keep me warm tonight. My cheeks flush at the dirty thought, and I swear Maks can read my mind as his smirk grows.

But I have a rule, and I intend to keep it. “Sorry, I don’t accept drinks from strangers.”Not even incredibly attractive ones who might tempt me to break my rule just this once.

“Pity.” Maks doesn’t look discouraged, though, as his eyes rake appreciatively down my body once more.

Sudden nerves make my stomach quiver, and I nearly jump out of my skin when the bartender slides a small tray of shots in my direction.

“Eight shots of tequila,” he cuts in.

“Thanks,” I mutter, bending to fish my credit card out of my over-the-knee boot.

Maks watches the movement, his gaze lingering on my breasts, and heat pools in my belly as he makes my position feel intensely more sexual than I considered before I did it. Quickly straightening, I slap my card down onto the bar and push it toward the bartender.

“It’s on the house,” he says, pushing the plastic back in my direction.

“Really? I mean—thanks.” Flustered from my exchange with Maks, I’m not ready to read into it, though this is the first time since I moved to Chicago that a bartender has given me anything on the house. Mission accomplished, I scoop up the tray of shots, ready to get the hell out of here before I get myself in the kind of trouble that would land me in a certain sexy Russian’s bed. “Nice to meet you, Maks—and thanks again,” I add as I turn to quickly make my escape.

“Lindsey.”

Heat pools in my belly. My name sounds entirely too sensual when he’s saying it with such command, his accent wrapping around it like a caress, and I don’t have to look to know it’s Maks calling me back. Without consciously deciding to, I freeze in place.

The warm scent of vanilla and tobacco reaches me moments before Maks does, and our eyes catch as I glance over my shoulder.

“You forgot your card,” he says, holding it up between his middle and index fingers. Then he slowly leans in, his eyes never leaving mine as he hooks a finger around the top of my suede boot, his fingertip trailing against my thigh.

I feel the rough brush of plastic sliding into my knee-high sock, and my mouth goes dry, my stomach knotting as the temperature in the room spikes. “Thanks,” I whisper as Maks straightens, that cocky smirk back on his face.

“You’re welcome.” After a tangible pause, he gestures for me to carry on with my night, and I practically sprint down the stairs, slinging my leg over the velvet rope rather than unhooking it in my desperation to run away.

“Oh my god, were you just talking to Maksim Yashkov?” Claire asks, her green eyes wide with disbelief once again as I slide our tray of shots onto the table.

“Um, I’m not sure—” I glance back over my shoulder to find those captivating blue eyes still watching me. My heart skips a beat. “Come on, let’s take the shots.”

“Can I point out the fact that our girl just waltzed into the VIP section and actually came back with drinks?” Tommy toasts as we raise our shot glasses.

I slam mine, resisting the urge to cringe as the tequila burns down the back of my throat, settling in my stomach. A moment later, its warmth seeps into my veins, helping me relax.

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