Page 26 of Control: XXX Vadim 1
Not that I would want to be, because what kind of person interviews marriage candidates? Someone so jaded and mistrustful he has an invisible wall built up wherever he goes.
And now I’m forced to spend another night in the same damn city as him.
Chin up, Tiffy,my inner bitch snarls.Remember those promises you made to yourself? Put them to the test bitch! Start with your morning routine—let no one ever get you down.
Right. Blinking back any tears, I find the music channel on the television and turn up the volume. Today’s choice is vulgar, offensive feminine rap, and I loudly chant along to the lyrics while sifting through my past impulse purchases for something to wear. It is as I enthusiastically prattle along to the words, “Y’all men ain’t shit,” that I’m struck with a glorious revelation.
Fuck Vadim Gorgoshev—not literally but figuratively. He’s left me in a gorgeous hotel suite, with room service already included, and I have not one but three designer gowns to choose from, membership to a sex club, and time to kill.
Geoff may have been a false start, but no worries. I’ll find someone even better to fuck me senseless until my flight in the morning, Vadim and his new wife be damned.
Grinning, I settle on the black option he’d rejected as my party ensemble. Then I blow my hair out into loose waves and find the reddest lipstick from the handful I picked up the other day.
“You look gorgeous, Tiffy,” I tell the bombshell beaming at me in the mirror’s reflection. “Now go knock ’em dead.”
* * *
I strollinto the hotel bar as if I own the place. Screw private businessmen lounges or exclusive clubs. I’ll take whoever I can get. It’s being picky that got me into this mess in the first place.
With my shoulders back, head held high, I stroll into the sleek, modern setting feeling more confident than ever—and I almost run right back out.
This time of day, there are slim pickings as far as available men go—but one of the most eligible and hands down the most handsome of the prospects, sits at a table smack dab in the center of the room. I’ll have to walk past him to reach the bar at the back, but that’s not the worst part.
Seated across from him, as beautiful as if she stepped off of a runway, is a slender brunette with tousled curls, perfectly applied makeup, and a modest two-piece suit ensemble in a delicate shade of ivory. Paired with Vadim, they look like some sexy, uber-rich power couple, and my confidence plummets through the floor.
Damaged pride almost drives me away. Almost. But then I make my grin as wide as I can and approach Vadim’s table casually.Verycasually.
Thinking on the spot, I wave at him, brimming with enthusiasm as those dark eyes narrow in suspicion. Skipping to his side, I lean over him from behind and place my hand on his shoulder. He stiffens instantly, even more so as I bring my mouth near his ear and murmur loud enough for his table companion to hear me.
“Baby, when you’re done with your meeting, I’ll be waiting for you at the bar. Kay?” My voice comes out the chirpiest, peppiest imitation of a Cali airhead, and I couldn’t be more pleased. Winking at the startled woman, I kiss Vadim right on his clenched cheek. “Don’t work too hard.”
Still grinning, I march to the bar where I promptly order my favorite vice and try not to die in utter shame. So the man who fucked my brains out—twice—is now interviewing marriage candidates right underneath my nose? I’m not jealous. Not in the slightest. After two sips of my wine, I’m not angry, either.
Especially when a hunky redhead in a dashing suit claims the stool next to me. “Is this seat taken?” he wonders, his blue eyes twinkling.
I clear my glass to the side and give him a more thorough once-over. “Not at all.” He isn’t bad for a last-minute option. He’s certainly muscular enough. Who cares if his eyes aren’t flashing with mystery, and his smile isn’t dazzling?
I’m over the brooding, aloof thing, anyway.
To prove it, I stick out my hand, my expression simpering. “I’m—”
“Not taken, I hope,” the man says, his gaze fixed beyond me.
“Huh?”
He chuckles, but there’s a nervous quality to the sound. “Please tell me that the man staring daggers at me isn’t your husband or something.”
Husband, he says?
I laugh loudly as I extend my hand again. In a voice clear enough to be heard from the main lobby, I declare, “Oh no, I amsoooooooosingle. My name’s Tiffy. What’s yours?”
He rattles off a boring answer like Ben or Sam. Then he proceeds to spend the next ten minutes regaling me with tidbits of the stock exchange market. At the same time, I muster every ounce of control I possess not to turn around. And I don’t. Even when an alarming warmth falls over my shoulder—the kind of pressure that could only belong to a masculine hand.
“Baby, I’m done with my meeting now, so you can stop provoking me. Kay?” a man purrs into my ear, his voice such a dead-on imitation of my Cali drawl that I do a doubletake. Dark eyes meet mine, sparkling with amusement—and something harder, promising punishment. “Tell the nice gent you’re sorry for wasting his time,” Vadim scolds, switching to his normal tone. Then he reaches into his pocket and withdraws a wad of cash that he offers to Ben, Sam—whoever—presumably as reimbursement for my second glass of wine.
Confused, the man takes the cash and backs off. “Sorry, man.”
Once poor Ben or Sam has escaped the bar intact, I whirl to face the figure already perching onto the vacated stool beside me.
