Page 3 of The Wrong Monster
Should I call out? I know the guy’s name, or at least his alias: Dingo. A stupid name for a kid from the Adirondacks, but he hasn’t made the smartest choices.
Before I can say anything, a shadow shifts across the hallway up ahead. Drawn forward despite the alarm bells going off in my head, I take two steps and get a glimpse of an open bar glowing to the right in some kind of living area before a tall, lean figure blocks the view.
The music…it’s Russian. I can make out the words now, and my chest tightens with fear and adrenaline as the man stares me down from what feels like two feet taller than I am.
His light-colored shirt is unbuttoned, revealing a surprisingly muscular chest with silver hair peppering it.
Damn.
An arrow of desire shoots through me before I can stop it. The man steps forward, wrapping a large hand around the straps of my purse. Despite how casually he takes it away, I can feel the strength in that grip.
I’m outmatched.
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
Startled, I look up and his hand catches my jaw, tilting my chin higher.
Bowed lips ghost over mine.
I’ve met worse men in worse-still hotels. But I haven’t been tempted to stay until now.
Chapter 2
Vasily
The woman in front of me is not intimidated at all.
I’m not used to that. It’s not intentional; everyone who catches a glimpse of me understands within moments just what I am.
For the already wealthy, they’re usually intimidated and impressed. Anyone else is intimidated and afraid. My men are respectful, but they’ve seen what I’m willing to do with my bare hands.
The same hands holding this woman’s face up to the light.
Until she jerks her chin away, sneers, and stares at me with those blue eyes.
Mine go to the mark on her cheek; small and purple, star-shaped. The stars are your compass, my grandfather used to say on clear Adirondack nights. The memory, combined with this woman standing in front of me, makes my breath catch.
“I need that—”
“Ah, ah, ah,” I tut, holding her purse out to the side, further than she can reach, with one arm. She glares at me, but doesn’t make a move to snatch it.
Smart. Somewhere underneath, she must be scared. The few women I ask to meet me here always are, but she’s not showing it. Not letting it drive her to messy action.
“I need to make sure you’re not carrying, or wired.”
Her brows knit. “We…have a meeting?”
It’s a question that has me taking a half-step back. I glance over my shoulder at the cell on the kitchen island, and consider calling the front desk. The Pandora opened a few months ago. I’m the owner of the construction company that headed the project. It was understood that I would get use of the rooms whenever and for whatever I needed.
Occasionally that means taking the edge off of a stressful week with a little cat-and-mouse fun. And this woman is dressed for the part.
My gaze is pulled back to her.
Curls graze the back of her neck, cascading out of a ponytail, and the outfit she has on is sinful. She’s not wearing a strappy dress, a miniskirt, or heels. Her tight workout pants hug her thighs, while some kind of shoulder-strap combo hoists up her breasts. My mouth waters at the sight of them.
“We have a meeting,” I confirm, too distracted by how delectable she looks to wonder at the question.
Hesitating only a moment, she puts a bit more space between us and holds her arms to the side.
