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Rand’s eyes hardened. He didn’t make many references to his past. “Yep.”
Ven shrugged and looked out the window. “As long as he keeps it clean of our business. He’s okay. I told him if it blows back on us, I will kill his ass, and I don’t care who his fucking mom is.”
Rand shifted in his seat. As if Ven didn’t know he had a soft spot for the boy’s mother. “Yeah, well, he’s being careful. Your boy Yuri, not so much. He calls the same number about ten times a day, but no one answers. Guess he doesn’t understand the concept of a burner phone. Baranov used it to contact him once and then probably dropped it in a lake somewhere. Every call goes straight to a voicemail that hasn’t been set up. All he has to do is sit tight and wait for Baranov to contact him. But he’s too fucking antsy. It’s only been a week since they tried to take your other sister-in-law.”
“Yeah, well, Rurik wants blood. Baranov would never have tried something like this if he didn’t have it all lined up with someone he thought powerful enough to challenge us.”
“There’s always the possibility that he actually is that fucking dumb.”
Ven shrugged. “Either way, we’ll find out soon enough.”
* * *
Ven swiped the elevator fob for his penthouse suite. But then he hit the close button and swung around. Almost bumping into Rand. “Fuck it. Let me go meet her. I need to meet the woman that has you afraid to say no.”
“Not afraid, just… well, you’ll see.”
Yes, he fucking would. In the SUV, Rand had broached another problem. A woman needed to speak to him, and she’d waited in his office for hours. Before leaving, only to return the next day. Refusing to state what she needed. It was personal. Probably a gambling debt, either hers or someone she loved. Shaking his head, he turned down the long, carpeted corridor from the elevator to the casino’s lower-level hive of offices. He passed a string of doors, ignoring the open ones. If he stopped and acknowledged any of them, he’d be swept along on a tide of bull shit situations to handle. Most people dreamed of being the boss because they thought they wouldn’t have anything to do. No supervisor to report to. Underestimating the weight of having everyone report to them. Every fucking person in the building thought they had a right to update him. On every menial, trivial piece of crap.
Dumping all of their bull shit incompetencies on his lap for him to handle. Ven didn’t mind cleaning up but come to him too often with that bull shit dump, and their ass was fired. He didn’t babysit people who’d begged for the job, saying they could handle it. He ran his hand under the collar of his shirt. Loosening the invisible noose a little more. His eyes burned and drooped from the trip; his feet were sluggish. Just a few more minutes, and then he was done. He’d drop Rand off on the casino floor, kick his shoes off and fall into bed. Clothing optional.
Ven opened the door, nodding curtly to his secretary when she stood up and snapped to attention. Looking, as always, as if she were about to salute. He tipped his head, and she swallowed hard, her Adam’s apple bobbing up and down before she swallowed again and waved to the other side of the office. He read the name on the paper she handed him.
Sasha Velle. What the hell kind of name was Velle?
“This is Miss Velle. Those are the messages she left. And even after I told her you were gone, and I assured her I was not lying to get rid of her. As if I would do such a thing.” She gave a little nostril flare before patting her salt and pepper hair back into her bun and huffed. “She came here to wait.”
“How did she get past security, and why wasn’t she escorted out?” He kept his back to Miss Velle. Let her sit there and fucking sweat.
“Ask him.” She huffed and pointed at Rand.
Rand raised his palms and backed out of the room. “My job was to get you here. And give you any updates. Now that I have, I’m out. I’ll keep you posted.”
Motherfucker. He should have shot his ass a long time ago. Ven looked down at the paper he was holding again before turning around.
His eyes were looking down, so he saw her legs first. Miles and miles of them. Planted like the thick trunks of a young sapling in fuck me heels with peek-a-boo toes. Red toenails. Candy apple red. His eyes took their time tracing up both boughs until they disappeared under her skirt. An inch over her knees. Catholic school regulation. But there was nothing demure about the skin-tight skirt plastered onto the curve of those hips. A stripper, had to be a stripper, and if she wasn’t, then she needed to be one. His eyes traveled a little faster around the curve of her waist. The rolling indentation between the curve of her hip and the fall of her breasts had him swallowing down pools of drool. Swallow or drown in them. Yes, he would put her on a stage and let every man there drool over her. His candy apple doll. No, not candy apple. That was her nails. Her name should be taffy. Could he pull and stretch her like the sugary treat? It didn’t even matter what her face looked like. Not with her fuck me, hot as hell, stripper body. He’d seen more girls than a gynecologist. Like it was a medical specialty, he was good at spotting talent. And she had it in droves.
His mind was making plans, but his eyes were still greedy for more. They’d taken big gulps of her, but they needed more, so he traced his way from her stripper body to her face.
Damn, he swallowed again. Had he called her a stripper? He needed to go down on his knees in penance. Say the rosary, and he wasn’t even Catholic. She had the face of an angel. Dropped straight from heaven. A sweet baby-faced angel. Her silver eyes were wide open as if she looked at the world from a different, holier, far more innocent place. She didn’t belong in the mortal realm. And she damn sure didn’t belong in a place like this. No matter how much he’d put the pretty ribbon on the pig’s ear. He lived just one small step above the cesspool. And he’d never minded before. It had brought him more money than most men dreamed of, helped shore up the Ismailov coffers, and was damn entertaining when it wasn’t dragging around his neck. No, he’d never minded the filth that clung to him, even when he’d literally rise above it to his penthouse. But with her face shining with some bright inner halo, he felt every bit of the dirt and grime he’d picked up from his trip and from breathing the air of his Desert Fox. What was she doing here? There had to be some mistake. Rand didn’t know what he was talking about. He’d straighten the whole mess out and escort her home. No, that was dangerous. Not when he wanted to be absolved by those tinsel eyes while he fucked her stripper body. No, not a stripper. He had to stop with the stripper. Maybe she was a dancer. Her calves said she danced like a ballerina, and her thighs screamed gymnast. She had to be stuck somewhere between both professions. Yes, a dancer made sense and was safe. Did she want a dancing job?
“Miss Velle, I’m Venedikt Ismailov. I believe you’ve been requesting to see me.”
She nodded. He needed to hear her voice. Did it trill like angel wings or Christmas bells? Instead, she bit her lip, the plump pout both sexy and innocent. She was the ultimate child-woman. Every pervert in the building would lose their fucking minds. Which would be good, would make it less painful, when he shot them all in the fucking forehead for thinking of her the way… the way he was.
“Yes, I wanted to speak to you. I need to ask you something. But please, it’s private. It will only take a minute of your time.” His brows drew together, and Ms. Peterson harrumphed behind him. No doubt with her finger tapping the security speed dial number. But he gave a sharp wave of his hand to stop the call and surprised them both when he answered.
“Of course. Right this way.” Ven gave a tight smile, waved trouble into the office, and closed the door.
Chapter 2
Sasha Velle had twiddled her thumbs for three hours, waiting for Venedikt Ismailov to return. But when he did, damn. What made her think she could handle this man? One look had her shivering inside. Like an arctic wind had sliced through the room. When she’d worked at the Desert Fox three months ago, he’d sweep through the casino. His eyes landing on everything and everyone except her. They had relegated her to the transportation staff. Fetching car keys for the valet staff. They’d snap their fingers and hand her a ticket. Then she’d jog down to the garage out of the patron’s sight. She’d fetched the vehicles and handed them off to the valets, who returned them to the owner. Collecting a nice tip in return. A tip that was supposed to be split in the tip jar they emptied every night. But nothing stopped them from sliding some of the money into their pockets.
At the Desert Fox, all were welcome. So, some days, she delivered Bentleys and Mercedes Benzes. Wiping each individual fingerprint off the steering wheel before she returned them. On the same night, she might pick up an old beat-up Beetle with a manual transmission that coughed like someone who’d smoked all their life, wheezing and shuddering her to the valet stand where she’d hop out. Grateful the car hadn’t stopped in the middle of the ramp. Something that had happened twice when she’d worked there. But as much as she drooled over the luxury automobiles, nothing and no one was more drool worthy than Venedikt Ismailov. He rarely swept in through the front entrance and never used valet. Preferring to use the hidden VIP entrance that led directly to his private offices. She’d wondered what he’d smelled like. Some cars carried masculine scents. Adrenaline mixed with the exotic spice of the owner’s cologne in a lavish bonanza that had her wondering about the owner. Like, who the hell smelled that good? But she never snooped. No, that violated the sacred trust between owner and staff. Breaking it was akin to posting videos from a confessional.
She’d left because the asshole manager of the valet staff told her the only way she’d make it from runner to valet was to sleep with him. Licking thin lips that sank behind his out-of-control bush of a mustache and his bovine fatty cheeks. Um, that was a big hell no. After his proposition, nothing she did was right. She brought the wrong car. She wasn’t wearing the proper uniform. Her shoes, the same ones she’d worn daily, didn’t meet the Desert Fox standard. She wasn’t up to standard. Anything and everything to get her to quit. He didn’t dare fire her. He saw a sexual harassment lawsuit coming for wrongful termination. But since his supervisor was his best buddy, what was the point in complaining? No, Vegas was full of too many opportunities. It was an employee’s market, and all she needed to do was shop around. Which she did. Find something better, another check.
Her new job was better. It wasn’t glamorous checking kids in and out of the kiddie adventure pool at the family-themed pirate hotel. But she’d ahoy their matey all day if it meant Porky Pig couldn’t touch her. It was just a means to an end. Everything was. And as long as she kept the end firmly in sight, she’d be fine. It was worth it. Other kids may have dabbled at life. Taking bits and pieces, sampling and sipping because they didn’t know what flavor suited them best, but she knew. She’d always known. She looked at the covers of paperback romance books and devoured them. The cover models dripped with diamond and emerald jewelry. Hot as hell possessive guy clenching her in front of a Parisian cafe. The Eiffel Tower waited in the background. True, the models rarely had skin the color of oak and mahogany or hair that curled in tufts. Red was the exotic color of choice, and she’d tried that disaster in a box only once. Before running back, gratefully, to her own natural dark hair color.
