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“You want a tour?”
I shake my head. “A glass of water would be nice, though. And then I need to tell you what I overheard tonight.”
He shows me to the kitchen, which looks like something out of a magazine. It’s all modern and sleek and way too clean and clutter-free to be used often. I climb onto one of the bar stools and accept the glass of water Maxim pours for me.
“So, tell me what you heard.” He sits on the stool beside me and turns to look at me.
“Most people kept to themselves, and I couldn’t do much, or people would suspect something. Hell, that asshole grabbed me just for peeing.”
His face glowers at the memory. “I think he assumed you were snooping around. But don’t worry, he won’t touch you again.”
“I’m not worried. I’m just explaining. Most people treated me like an idiot once you told them I couldn’t speak or understand English. I heard the women bitching about me, but the men, even though they kept their eyes on me, were mostly preoccupied with you. You’re quite the intimidating figure. Anyway, those three men I passed on the way to the food table—you saw them, right?”
He nods. “I figured you were up to something. Yes, I’m familiar with them.” He doesn’t offer me their names, and I don’t ask. It doesn’t matter to me anyway.
“One of them, the tallest one, said something about meeting at nine o’clock at the tower. They’re supposed to make a deal, but I’m not sure what that entails. And, unfortunately, they didn’t mention what day it would go down, but I figure you could have the place watched if you knew where they might be referring to.”
His face is blank now, but I can tell he’s pissed. “One of my buildings is referred to as the tower because it dominates the buildings around it. What else?”
“That was the only information of any use.”
“That’s not what I asked. What else did they say?”
“Oh, you know, the usual. Once you’re out of the way, they can fuck your whore in all of her holes, yada, yada, yada.”
His face goes red, and he looks two seconds away from exploding.
I reach out and grab his arm. “Hey, I’m good. Like you said, nothing is going to happen to me. Besides, I can take care of myself. And men like that—they’re all talk anyway.”
“I don’t fucking care. I don’t like them talking about you like that,” he snaps.
“It’s just men being assholes. Need I remind you—you did it yourself earlier when you were talking to one of your men.”
“That’s because I need them to see that I saw you as expendable. They know not to touch what is mine. But as you said earlier, I didn’t want to paint a target on your back, so I made it seem like, eventually, my interest in you would fade, and you’d be gone.”
“I figured that out already, and that’s the only reason why you are not walking around with a very sore pair of balls right now. My point is that you all have this way of talking to each other when it comes to women, and none of it is flattering. I feel like I need a shower just from being in the same room as half of them.”
He curses and looks away for a second before he climbs off the stool and squats down to take my shoes off again.
“What is it with you and my shoes?”
His simple answer— “I don’t like you having sore feet.”
I look down at him, confused about what to do with the man. He messes with my head, and he’s mostly a dick, but he has a surprisingly sweet side that I’m drawn to. I don’t like that one little bit. It’s much easier to hate someone when they are an asshole. It’s far harder to hate someone who, in another life, could have been a friend or even more.
“Um, thanks. Can you show me to my room? I really want to take a shower and climb into bed.”
He stands and offers me his hand. “Of course. You must be tired.” He shakes his head. “I forgot about your injuries. You hide your discomfort so well. I have painkillers upstairs.”
“I’m okay. I just need to rest. I won’t take something if I don’t know what it is I’m being given.”
“I have a doctor—”
“Maxim, I’m fine. I promise. If that changes, I’ll let you know.”Liar, liar, pants on fire!
He looks at me skeptically, but lets it go. I follow him upstairs—not looking at his ass in his suit pants at all—my eyes moving to his hand that carries my shoes. Something about it tugs at me. I don’t do well with sweetness, but I can’t deny that it makes me curious to know how a man, who probably spent his life surrounded by darkness, learned these small gestures.
He opens the door on his left and shows me in. He flicks on the light and heads to the attached bathroom while I take in the queen-sized bed and the dark wooden dresser and matching bedside tables. It’s masculine without being too much. There is a door on the left that I assume is the closet, and then the bathroom.
