Page 2 of Gemini Queen
I’m consistent as fuck about that.
My chic best friend/business partner/occasional girl toy has the connections to land the invites. (Yeah, I’m bi. It’s the 2020s. Get over it.) I have the gear and the training to bag the target. And Xiao, who’s hot as fuck and hung like you wouldn’t believe, handles the tech.
When he isn’t handling my body. Something else he’s way too good at.
Did I mention I’m biandpoly?
All of which means my encrypted invite passes the once-over for Snake Eyes, Cleo’s name shows up on his whitelist, and the bomb will go off in eighteen minutes just like Xiao and I planned.
“You’re all clear.” Snake Eyes is a pro, so he doesn’t leer at my hotness in my short skirt. “Enjoy the party, Ms. Ferrari.”
Hell to the yeah.
I swank my way through the well-heeled masses decked out in tuxes and glitter to the rotating bar and grab a flute of bubbly for camouflage. Time to take a hefty swallow for courage. Tiny bubbles fizz up my nose and creamy foam slides down my throat, because it’s top shelf Dom. The cheerful souls splashing in the turquoise pool are mostly drunk and naked. It’s a Wang party, so they’ll all be fucking by dawn.
Except the bomb will go off at twelve forty. Oops.
The band’s rocking out on stage and couples are getting down on the dance floor, complete with disco lighting, fog machine and crystal ball, because Singapore. There’s a roped-off VIP level with models snorting coke, because Wang.
And there’s a private office with a wall safe and a Fabergé egg with a microchip that’s gonna get nicked tonight, because me.
And whoa, over there by the caviar bar, prowling through the scene like it’s a jungle and he’s an apex predator and we’re all raw meat, has to be the single most impressive physical specimen of manhood in all of Southeast Asia.
I’m talking six foot plus of long legs and lean hips wrapped in butter-soft leather, a silky white shirt clinging to a chest you want to lick and biceps you want to sink your teeth in, and a luscious mane of hair like ink spilling halfway to his ass. Add a face like Adam Driver, eyes like Russian amber, and a prowl like a hunting panther?
It’s a Wang party, so he’s probably some kind of Chinese mafia. He’s all golden skin and feral hunger and custom ink licking from his open collar like black flames.
And if he fucks like he walks, he’ll set my panties on fire.
Not that I’ll be testing that theory anytime soon, to my complete fucking regret. Not with Xiao’s bomb going off in just under seventeen ticks. I need that egg to pay the bills and that microchip to stay under the radar.
Since my dad upped the bounty, every two-bit cleaner on the planet’s gunning for my head.
So I’m a look-but-don’t-touch kinda girl tonight, just sipping Wang’s champagne and grooving to the tunes, while Adam works the room like he’s casing it himself. He’s carrying a whiskey, but he’s not drinking. He’s getting eye-fucked by every girl at the party and a healthy smattering of the guys, but he’s not flirting. He’s standing right next to a chaise sporting two girls and a guy peeling out of their party clothes and tonguing each other and pretty much about to have a hot-and-heavy three-way right there on the pool deck, but he’s not watching.
What he is doing is keeping an eye on everyone who comes and goes from the lift.
Andkeeping track of all the exits.
He lights me up for a lot more reasons than that sleek skin I want to drag my tongue over and that silky hair I want to drag my fingers through. My Spidey senses are tingling like I just stuck a fork in an electric socket. And my hair keeps wanting to float around my shoulders in this psychic charge I’m generating.
I wonder if he’s here for the egg and the intel. I wonder if I’m gonna need to fight him for it or if he’s got those intense topaz eyes of his fixed on some other prize.
I wonder if Wang’s gonna get nicked twice tonight.
I mosey over to the glass-walled barricade that guards the two-hundred story drop from the top of the Tai-Sun Tower and work to get my head back in the game. My so-called gift almost slipped the leash back there, thanks to Adam and that vibe he’s throwing off. Which, with my ironclad control, definitely isn’t typical. What I can’t figure out is how the guy affects me like this from all the way across the pool.
And since I don’t know, I’m definitely keeping my distance.
The ends of my hair finally stop floating, but my fingers just keep tingling. Facing away from a rooftop full of eyes, I rub my fingertips together. Tiny violet sparks sputter and snap from the friction.
Not good, showgirl. You better get your psychic Gemini shit together. And I mean now.
I sneak another peek at my dive watch. Fourteen ticks to showtime. Which means I still have time to admire the view. The entire megacity hums and pulses with energy, the hiss of traffic punctuated by the blare of car horns under the band’s epileptic beat. The sleek shapes and garish lights of downtown Singapore shoot skyward like rockets. Windows blossom red and gold and green with reflected New Year’s fireworks, exploding over the night-black sea.
All the signs point to an auspicious year.
If I can just manage to live long enough to enjoy it.
