Page 102 of The Kingpin's Call Girl

Instead, the place is posh and bright—chic, even—like we’ve walked into the pages of an interior design magazine. A mod statement chandelier made of swirly glass. Floor-to-ceiling windows. There’s even a blue chair in that knobby sort of fabric.

It’s not him.

But then I almost want to laugh because it’s actuallyso himto live in a place that’s not him.

This man who lives in the shadows and treats everything as a transaction. Nothing to pin him down. Nothing to define him. Hewouldlive in a magazine. Another way to stay hidden.

“You warned us about the meeting.” He turns, swirling amber liquid. “With the cookies.”

My breath catches. I hadn’t expected him to lead with that.

“That was your mistake, of course.”

“I couldn’t let anything happen to you.” The words spill out before I can stop them. “No matter what you think of me, I never wanted to cause trouble for you. I care?—”

“Another mistake,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “So naive.”

Excitement churns in my stomach. Even now, just his nearness turns me on. “It’s not naive to care.”

He takes a slow sip, gaze locked on mine. “You and Anastasia Laskarina.”

I blink. “What does she have to do with anything?”

“You’re alike. The two of you living in your cloistered worlds of pastel gowns and leatherbound books, spinning elaborate theories about the world outside your castle windows. Fascinated by brutal men.”

“Fascinated by brutal men? That’s not true of her or me.”

“It’s why you study her. You’re both fascinated by the barbarians—from a distance.”

“You clearly don’t know anything about her. If you did, you would know that she was interested in all the issues of her time. Diplomacy. Matters of state. Charitable causes. She was the first teen historian. As you would’ve read in my papers.”

“According to your papers, she was obsessed with barbarians.”

I fold my arms over my chest. “That is what’s known as a flawed interpretation.”

“You know what else I think?” he rumbles.

“No, but I bet you’re going to tell me.”

A predatory smile curves his lips. He sets down his drink. “I think you love it when your princess talks about how brutish and dirty they are. You love those parts. Hot for a little bit of danger.”

“It’s an academic concentration, not a sex fantasy!”

He comes close. Electricity crackles between us.

Gentle fingers skirt over my breasts.

I suck in a breath, trying to look indifferent.

“You sure about that?”

“Quite sure.”

“Your stiff little nipples beg to differ.”

“No, my entire academic career begs to differ. The nipples are responding to the thermostat settings.”

His lips are a hair’s breadth away from mine, spicy with scotch and so kissable, I can barely think. “Is that so?”

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