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“Nino!” I pinch his arm.
“What now?”
“Is Popov here?”
He rolls his eyes and takes a look around. “No, he’s not. As I’ve already told you at least seven times in the past hour.”
“It’s been two hours. Why isn’t he here? It’s his club.”
Nino mumbles something and looks down at his phone again.
Sighing, I grab Luna’s forearm. “Let’s go dance.”
I pull my friend toward the dance floor, swaying my hips to the beat. It’s difficult with four-inch heels, but I try my best. There aren’t too many people dancing, maybe twenty, and a good number of them are throwing curious looks in my direction.
I’m used to people staring. It’s unavoidable, considering my fashion choices. So, let them stare. Let them believe the persona I project—a carefree girl so sure of herself that she’d come into an upscale club dressed in a glittering outfit and feel good about it.
My brother thinks I accepted the arranged marriage because I’m bored and want to get back at him for being too protective. He said so himself while berating me and trying to change my mind. The don believes it’s because he threatened my brother’s life. I’m not sure what Luna thinks, but considering the number of times tonight I’ve mentioned how loaded Drago Popov must be, she probably believes I want to marry for money. It always amazes me how easily people come to conclusions when I let them see what they expect to see. I guess no one would believe I’d marry a stranger because I’m afraid to be alone.
I pass my eyes over the crowd, looking for a man in jeans. This doesn’t seem like a jeans-friendly place, but in all the photos I’ve seen, Drago Popov is wearing them. Nope, no jeans anywhere in sight. Only bespoke suits.
A tall figure leaning on the bar attracts my attention. He’s partially in shadows, but based on his posture, I’d say he’s in his thirties. The black dress pants he’s wearing are immaculately tailored and his black shirt, with the first button undone, stretches over his wide shoulders. He’s not wearing a jacket, and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to his elbows. There’s something familiar about him, but I can’t pinpoint it. He’s been looking my way ever since I noticed him standing there, but I’ve ignored him, just like I’ve ignored the rest of the men at this club who’ve been ogling me.
He leans forward to place his glass on the bar, and suddenly I canseehim. Short dark hair, a little longer at the top. Olive skin that speaks of time in the sun. And finally, the sharp lines of his face, illuminated by the light from the sconce on the nearby pillar. He’s handsome, like many others in the club. But there’s a striking difference that sets him apart from other men here. While they have been gaping at my ass and cleavage, this guy is focused solely on my face.
I meet his eyes and smile. By all accounts, I’m still an unattached woman, so I don’t see anything wrong with a bit of benign flirting. He doesn’t smile back. How rude! I turn my attention back to the rest of the crowd but, somehow, my gaze wanders back to the brooding man. He’s still looking at me. Another guy in a gray suit approaches from behind and places a hand on Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome’s shoulder. Without breaking our eye contact, the rude hottie shakes his head and sends the suit guy away.
The song changes to a slow melody—“The Sound of Silence” performed by Disturbed. I’ve always preferred this version.
“I don’t like slow songs. Do you think Nino will let us get another drink?” Luna asks and heads back to our booth.
I don’t reply. I don’t even move because I’m rooted to the spot, staring at the man from the bar as he walks directly toward me.
Something in the way he carries himself commands attention. An air of danger surrounds him, the scent of it heightened by the way he walks. Each step is slow and deliberate as if he’s a wolf on the prowl. The intensity of his gaze is petrifying and enticing, like he’s somehow sunk invisible claws into me. I can’t look away.
The song blasting from the speakers rises in pitch, each word louder than the previous one. My heart matches the rhythm, beating faster and faster, and by the time he stops right in front of me, it seems like the damn thing is going to break out of my chest.
“Dance with me.” The deep timbre of his voice rolls over me, and it’s as if it brushes over every inch of my exposed skin. I’m convinced that I wouldn’t have been able to reject him even if he bothered to actually ask. His hand slides around my waist. Certainty sets in as I stare into his green eyes. My chance to escape whatever darkness he offers has long passed.
He tilts his head up, breaking our eye contact, to look at something behind me. Shit. I completely forgot about Nino. I glance over my shoulder, expecting to see Luna’s brother rushing toward us. But instead of coming over to stop the stranger’s advance whether I want him to or not, Nino is standing at the edge of the dance floor, glaring at the hottie. As I watch, Nino nods and remains in place. Immediately, the arm around my waist tightens, pulling me closer against the hard chest, demanding my rapt notice.
“Your babysitter decided not to bother us.”
He has a strange accent, rolling theR, which makes his voice sound kind of growly. My sister’s husband is Russian, and while Pasha has no accent at all when he speaks English, some of his friends do. This man’s accent is similar, but not exactly the same.
“I guess it’s your lucky day.” I smile, trying to hide my nervousness. Talking or flirting with men has never posed a problem for me before, but I find it hard now.
His hands move to the small of my back, just above where the low waistband of my jumpsuit rests. I know I should hook my hands behind his neck, but he’s much taller than me, so I just place my palms on his shoulders.
“It seems like it.” One of his palms drifts up slightly, touching my bare skin. “I don’t remember seeing you here before.”
“I came to have a look at someone.”
“Is it a male someone?”
His thumb strokes the skin along the beltline of my jumpsuit. With every brush, a spark ignites, sending a wave of heat through me while his eyes bore into mine. I blink a few times, trying to pull myself together.
“Maybe,” I finally say.
