Free The Master by Kresley Cole Page B

missed laughing and confiding.
    When I’d gotten married, I’d grown apart from them. To bury my head in the sand about my disaster of a marriage, I’d buried myself in school, racking up twenty-one credits a
semester, over and over.
    “What are you thinking about?”
    Edward, Edward, Edward.
I shrugged.
    “I can’t stop wondering what’s going on behind those beautiful eyes of yours.”
    “
Nada.
” He’d called my eyes
stunning
last time.
    “You truly don’t enjoy shopping?”
    “I hate it. This dress is a loaner.”
Gracias, Ivanna.
    The only fun I had each week was cleaning her condo. As I washed windows, she would paint her long nails and tell me stories about escorting. I got a weekly earful about debauched nights,
bizarre clients, and tried-and-true techniques.
    But I never told her anything about myself. She had family back in the Ukraine that she was desperate to bring over. If she saw a reward for information about me, she would choose her family
over me. I didn’t begrudge her, but I also didn’t share anything unnecessary.
    Sevastyan asked, “Would you want to shop if I said we could go pick up a bauble right now? Get a store to open for us?”
    Now he was just screwing with me. I wondered if he did that with other people. “Delaying sex for food is one thing. For dinner
and
shopping? Silly
Ruso.
”
    “You make a valid argument.”
    By the time Sevastyan and I had finished eating, I’d had two glasses of wine, commanding myself to take it slow on my third.
    “I don’t have to ask if you enjoyed the meal,” he said. “You got a blissful look on your face with each bite.”
    “That obvious, am I?” It couldn’t have been helped. Whenever I was with the Russian, everything felt amplified. The taste of wine. The texture of food. The feel of his fingers
tracing my back. The pleasure in a kiss—or a climax.
    “I like when I can tell what you’re thinking and feeling,
dushen’ka
.”
    “What does that word mean?”
    “It’s a way of calling you ‘dear.’ ” He stretched his arm behind me, and I found myself curling up against his chest. An unexpected sense of ease bloomed between
us. Almost like déjà vu, as if I’d been with him before.
    The last thing I needed was to become infatuated. We were in a transactional relationship—which was going nowhere.
Boundaries, Cat. Build the wall.
    He trailed his fingers over my arm. “I never thought I’d meet a woman with more secrets than I.” His voice was low and relaxed. “And you ask so little about
me.”
    “What should I be asking? What would you ask if you were me?”
    “Why I was in Miami in the first place. For politician or
mafiya
business. You must have read about my syndicate ties.”
    “I don’t think I want to know about the dealings of
la mafia Rusa
.”
    “Are you certain?” His tone was coaxing, as if he dangled bait.
Screwing with me again.
“I’m open to talking about my activities.”
    I was only going to be with him for another couple of hours, so what did it matter?
    “I’ve never been with a date who didn’t dance toward the subject.”
    Those actresses and models? Or the paid help? I drew back to cast him a bored look. “No thanks. I watched
The Godfather
once. I’m sure you can’t improve on
that.”
    He canted his head. “I guess that disproves Vasili’s suspicion.”
    “Which is?” I reached for my glass, taking a sip.
    “He believes you’re a plant, paid for by my enemies or the tabloids to dig up information. I think I’m too proud to tell him that you have very little interest in
me.”
    I frowned. Edward had made my pride
sing
with pain. I remembered yelling at him: “How can you be married to a woman you don’t desire? Why won’t you go to counseling with
me?” Without looking up from his computer, Edward had said, “I’m so sorry, Ana-Lucía—are you
still
talking?”
    So I told the Russian, “I’m not
un
interested, Máxim. But I’m a very private person. The less I