Page 7 of The Bratva Contract
“I told you already, I’m not much for talking.”
“A man of action, you said,” I tease. I glance at the place where he grips my arm, the searing heat of his touch branding my bare skin. He isn’t hurting me, not really, but his hold is firm, and slipping free wouldn’t be easy. Meanwhile, I wouldn’t mind shimmying out of my silver dress right about now.
“I’m holding back the action out of respect until an agreement is reached.”
“What makes you think I’ll accept?”
“What makes you think I’ll offer?” he counters.
He stands so close I can smell his expensive, spicy cologne mix of clove, sandalwood, and something smoky. I inhale deeply, dizzy from it. The breath lifts my breasts against the dress, and his eyes drop to the swell. Satisfaction unfurls as I gain a point for me. I’ve distracted him. He’s as affected as I am it seems. It’s a hollow triumph, but I’ll take it.
My heart stutters at his nearness. I wish I could play it cool and pretend I don’t feel a thing. We’re adversaries, on this and on everything. He’s willing to claim me as the price of securing my father’s business; a man like that will never be on my side. I want independence and leadership of the bratva that should have been my birthright, not subordination to another man who thinks he knows best. Seething, I break eye contact and brush past him.
I rise on tiptoe in my stilettos to reach the good vodka. My dress slides up over the curve of my ass as I stretch. I teeter before my fingers close around the bottle and ease it off the shelf. Victorious, I turn for a glass and find him there. Bigger than life, all six-foot-four of him. The weight of his shadow settles over me, unsettling.
“What?” I demand, shrugging off the hand he extends to steady me.
“If you fall and knock out your teeth, it’ll ruin the wedding pictures,” he says slyly. He’s so maddening that, for a second, I want to hurl the heavy bottle across the room just to rattle him. But it’s the really good stuff, and I fought too hard to snag it. I grab a glass, pour a generous measure, set the bottle down, and nod toward it. That’s the only invitation he’ll get.
He lifts an eyebrow at me, probably thinking I’m a petulant teenager through the lens of his forty years and the cynical set of his mouth. I wait for him to tell me I should show more respect for my father, or that I shouldn’t be drinking hard liquor in front of a guest, or frankly stealing my dad’s private-reserve vodka. He’s going to deliver the set-down he’s been spoiling for since we met, treat me like a misbehaving kid, and probably swipe the bottle and put it back. I drain my glass and lean on the edge of the table, waiting for his verdict.
Dima Petrov lifts the bottle, his big, rough hand closing around its neck. Glass is fragile; he could shatter it without effort. His dark eyes reveal nothing, maybe a glint of amusement. He meets my gaze head-on, then lets his eyes drop to my lips. The look ripples through me, leaving me exposed and exhilarated.
He never breaks eye contact. Raising the bottle, he tips it to his mouth. I watch the cords in his throat work as he takes a long swallow straight from the neck. There’s something profane and intimate about it, the raw dare in his eyes as his mouth closes around the glass, making me wish, for a split second, that it were me.
He is, and isn’t, what I expected: tough, practical, reserved, standing apart from everything around him. Predictable traits.But there’s something else, not just the coiled power or the cold charisma. A sliver of wildness, maybe, something far beyond what I bargained for when I agreed to play the pretty, headstrong prize for a powerful man.
CHAPTER 5
DIMA
She’s everything her father promised: beautiful and difficult. She’s more than that, though, a whip-smart software engineer with a big mouth and a chip on her shoulder about being the daughter, not the heir. A more seasoned woman would hide that resentment, but Karina revels in turning heads and shocking whoever’s watching. I can’t decide whether it’s a bid for control or a thirst for attention; maybe it’s both. And that dress. That silver, sinful dress. The moment I saw her in it, before she even stretched for a high shelf and the hem hitched up to expose the taut curve of her high, firm ass, I knew she spelled trouble. Too alluring by half, too calculating, too impossible to resist. No man, living or freshly dead, could look away from those endless legs or the neckline that fought to contain her bountiful cleavage. One deep breath would send hot, heavy flesh spilling into the open. My eyes were greedy; my hands, greedier. It’s one thing to decide it’s practical to marry a woman who understands the life, a woman who grasps the delicate politics. It’s another to realize I want her for far more than convenience.
I knew she was young, but so accomplished. Now I’ve met her it’s obvious how young she is, fiery and impulsive, not good at covering her reactions or feelings. She resents her dad but is trying to find a way to turn this to her advantage. There is no way to do that. She’s a woman, a young one, in a rigged system that treats her as an asset. Nothing about the way she looks or acts made me feel like I need to protect her although I’m sure that it’s one of her dad’s selling points, that I would keep her safe from other dangerous men by my very existence as her husband. Just as he attempted to persuade me that she’d be an ideal breeder for my future heirs.
Nothing about her whispers motherly or nurturing. She looks just as likely to explode and drive a knife into my back. She wants the fight and dares me to call her wrong, too brash, too reckless. She’s all of it. And balanced on that razor’s edge is desire, dark and sharp, as startling as it is inconvenient. This marriage was supposed to be a logical move, the safe play. I’d take a wife, flood her with my seed every night, and secure my heir. Karina turns that plan into a gamble. She’ll either plot against me while smiling like a dutiful mob wife, or she’ll become the taste of a drug I’ll never quit, sweet and fatal at once.
Underestimating her is more dangerous than Russian roulette; on that I’m certain. She’s entertaining, so energetic, so fierce, so damned determined. Fascinating to watch, yet she leaves me with a pounding headache. During the drive home I can’t steal a moment of peace. My body still hums as though her presence injected cocaine straight into my veins. My hands itch to turn around and haul her to my house tonight, no terms settled, no date set, no consent on paper. A primitive part of me wants to drag her off and declare that she’s mine now, no waiting. I ruled for nearly two decades without an heir, but the instant I sawKarina, all I could think about was plunging into her, filling her, making her scream my name.
Surely that last part isn’t required. She doesn’t have to cling to me, slick with sweat, tears sliding from the corners of her eyes in the weakness of utter satiation. She doesn’t need to moan my name when I bury myself in her to the hilt. And yet, for one searing heartbeat, I know I need exactly that. I crave the primitive thrill of making her helpless, making her beg.
Tomorrow I’ll call Sergei. I wonder if I’ll have the patience to play hardball with him. I’d rather agree to terms as swiftly as possible to get my hands on her. Even though I know to my practical core she’s going to upend my life and make me insane. I won’t know calm or quiet any longer. A decisive end to long empty nights spent working late or drinking with my oldest friends. A Russian to the core, I still enjoy a smooth Irish whiskey from time to time. She’ll learn that secret and so much more, including the small personal details. I can’t say I like the idea of being known so well or rather observed so closely by a woman who will surely be as much my antagonist as my wife. If I thought her a likely enemy, I’d never consider the union. I expect her to be an annoyance, a ceaseless distraction as noisy and troublesome as she is delectable and clever.
Early the next day, I call my closest advisors to a closed-door discussion. I do not even have to name her or her father’s bratva to hear their unanimous support.
“You should have done it years ago, Dima,” Piotr says.
The handful of others echo him. Apparently, I deserve the comfort of a wife and the certainty of a dynasty. I almost laugh aloud when they extol the solace of marriage, as though chaining myself body and soul to Karina Kozlova resembles peace. WhenI finally shake my head, I can’t tell whether it’s amusement or foreboding.
One of my lawyers phones Kozlov and we come to terms within an hour. There is much to be worked out about the merger of the bratvas, but the marriage contract is ready in no time. We settle on a date for the engagement party, some extravagant event that Sergei deems necessary to announce the union to all his friends. I keep myself from commenting that I’m not aware he has any friends as his closest confidantes have a way of drowning or committing suicide whenever they make the mistake of disagreeing with him, much like his wife did. Considering I’m not an employee of his, I have nothing to worry about as far as respecting his imagined authority. The authority he’s handing to me gladly just to be rid of his daughter. It’s enough to make a man wonder how much of a thorn in his side she really is.
CHAPTER 6
KARINA
My office smells like a goddamn memorial service. I may not have received a proposal in the usual way, but my fiancé delivered a raft of fresh flowers. Dozens of fluffy white peonies with their cloying, sweet scent arrived first, followed by big, dazzling pink lilies that were even more perfumed. Then came the calla lilies, the ones I secretly love for their deep burgundy hue and secretive curve. If they weren’t fighting for pride of place amid what looks like an entire florist shop, I could enjoy them. The rest of the roses and orchids crowd the sitting room downstairs and front entry.
I would have preferred titanium, stock options, or part ownership in an emerald mine, maybe my own boutique hotel in Thailand, perhaps. Instead, I get flowers, tons of unimaginative blooms boxing me in. Work is a struggle with the engagement party and tonight’s formal announcement looming over my head. The tenuous grasp I had on independence has slipped away, and by midnight I’ll be officially engaged. A glam team is booked, the dress already hanging in its garment bag on my dressing-room door. I have to wrap up my meeting early so I canget ready. Yesterday was all spray tan and waxing. And through it all I haven’t had so much as a phone call from Dima. I’m an object he’s acquiring, a new possession. He might have laughed at the idea that I’m an unwanted dish of cabbage, but here we are.
