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Then he would wait for the promised money transfer, a game changer in his war with his father.
He set the bottle of tequila back on the bar and turned with his drink. He took a sip and heard Ruby step into the hall.
She entered the living room a moment later.
A vision.
She smiled shyly as his gaze swept over her and he took his time drinking her in.
The dress was perfect for her, a deep red that set off the flush in her cheeks. She’d swept her dark hair into a complicated knot at the top of her head and the deep V of the dress’s neckline provided an enticing glimpse of the soft curve of her breasts.
The dress had a tapered waistline and flared to an extravagant cascade of layered silk that skimmed her body. It looked like someone had taken scissors to it, the layers falling in artful tiers all the way to the floor.
He could almost feel the silk on his hands as he slid them up Ruby’s creamy thighs, could almost hear the soft rustle of fabric as he touched his tongue to her pussy.
Fuck.
He was getting hard again. There was a time to be ungentlemanly but this wasn’t it.
He cleared his throat and walked toward her, unable to tear his eyes from her face. She hadn’t applied much makeup, just some eye shadow and mascara, a sweep of light color on her lips.
He caught her perfume, wished he could bury his face in her neck so he could smell past it to her skin.
“You look beautiful,” he said, resisting the urge to embarrass her with an array of compliments.
“Thank you.” She grabbed the skirt in both hands and looked down at it. “This dress is… well, it’s the nicest dress I’ve ever worn.”
“It was made for you.”
You were made for me.
She looked up at him. “You look nice too.”
“Thank you.” He held out his arm. “Shall we?”
She hesitated, then slid her hand into the crook of his arm.
He felt like the luckiest man in the world.
And with Valeriya’s money, he would soon be one of the most powerful.
26
Ruby
They had dinner at a boutique hotel in the West Village. It felt almost subversive to be sitting in the cozily lit restaurant, a smattering of other diners murmuring around them.
Ruby had been in the loft for so long she felt like she was committing a cardinal sin.
But if sinning was wrong, she didn’t want to be right. It felt amazing to be out, to glide through the city in the dark (she’d cracked a window in the back seat of the car, in spite of the cold, just so she could smell it) and feel the slide of a beautiful dress against her legs when she exited the SUV.
Roman said the hotel and its restaurant were owned by an associate who had personally guaranteed their safety, and she slowly let her guard down as they dined on tender grilled octopus and littleneck clams, ricotta gnocchi with wild mushrooms and perfectly rare steak that melted in her mouth.
They talked about politics and religion (funny how much less loaded those topics were in the face of the other stuff between them) and about their favorite books and movies.
By the time they got to dessert — rich dark espresso, white chocolate and almond panna cotta, chocolate bread pudding — the wine Roman had ordered and the special occasion had loosened her tongue.
She sat back in her chair. “So what do you do? Exactly?”
