Page 122 of Dirty Damage

“Right. Because you always stare at your business partners like you want to bend them over the nearest flat surface.”

Of course he noticed. It’s not as if I was subtle at the pool. Sutton pulled her sweater over her head and it’s like my eyes were gluedto her skin, tracing over all the places I’d tasted and touched her. The places still left to explore.

“Fuck off.” But there’s no real heat in it. Artem’s known me too long to be intimidated by my bark. “The physical attraction is a bonus. Makes the baby-making more efficient.”

“And after she’s pregnant?”

I grip the wheel tighter, something vicious percolating in my gut at the thought of Sutton swollen with my child. “What about it?”

“Wanting to fuck her might be more of a distraction when you don’t need to get her pregnant. Is that when you’ll finally admit you’re doing it for fun or?—?”

“Since when do you give a shit who I fuck? Is Faye putting you up to this?”

Artem holds up his hands in mock surrender, but the suspicious smirk stays on his face. “I’m just looking out for you, boss. Someone has to, since you’re too stubborn to look out for yourself.”

“I’m the only one looking out for anything,” I snap. “I don’t know why I bring you on stakeouts. You’re just a fucking distraction.”

“I’m the damn entertainment!”

I’m saved from him noticing my amusement by movement at the club entrance. Boris emerges, silk shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, looking exactly like the sleazy bastard he is. His personal car glides up moments later.

“Should we be following him?” Artem asks as Boris is driven away.

“No. I want to see who will follow him out of that club.”

Sure enough, three men in black exit two minutes later, wearing familiar emblems on their jackets.

The same emblems we saw on the bikers who attacked my car.

“Well, well. Isn’t that interesting.”

Part of me actually wants to see Drew Anton among them, as if I need another reason to want to kill him.

“Blyat’.” Artem mutters. “You think he’s working with them?”

“It’s not a fucking coincidence, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“You thinkthey’reresponsible for the attacks in Palm Beach and Miami?” Artem sounds as dubious about that as I am.

“No.” I shake my head. “Not by themselves, anyway.”

“The Martineks,” Artem confirms what we’re both thinking. “Vol’s intel was right.”

“And the Ristovs.” I memorize faces, movements, the way they scan their surroundings. Professional. Dangerous. “Boris is building himself quite the army.”

“Why, though? What’s his endgame?”

“Getting me out of the way, for starters.” I pull into traffic, maintaining a careful distance from Boris’s BMW. “Those security breaches? Both were reported by his teams. The one man that was killed in the attack in Miami was loyal to me.”

“He’s plotting something,” Artem breathes, pulling out his phone and tapping out a hasty message.

I nod. “And using the Martineks and Ristovs as his attack dogs while keeping his hands clean. If it works, he regains control. If it fails, he has convenient scapegoats.”

“Crafty old bastard.” Artem’s tone carries grudging respect. “Here I thought he was just a washed-up drunk.”

“Get eyes on him around the clock. I want to know every move he makes, every person he meets.” I switch lanes, heading toward my penthouse. “And arrange a sweep of my properties. Starting with the apartment.”

He flashes his phone at me. “Already done. Debugger should be there in twenty.”

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