Page 36 of Control: XXX Vadim 1
“Thanks,” I croon, displaying the smile in question. “With a little bit more training, I’ll have you an expert in bedroom talk.”
For his next conquest, of course. Because by then, I’ll be in Cali crawling under another businessman. Or maybe a doctor.
“I need to change.” He strolls to the door, unabashedly bare. “Preferably before you attempt to sneak away, thus committing theft. Though I am sure you are above such devious actions?”
I shiver as he passes me, and it takes everything I have to keep from ogling his ass a second time.
“I’m not,” I admit. “The second you leave, I’m running headlong to the lobby. Try and stop me.”
“Is that so?” He eyes me from over his shoulder, his smirk firmly in place. Casually he dons his shirt and suit jacket and then slips into his pants. The only missing item is his belt, which I think is lost in the bed somewhere. Rather than hunt for it, he enters the hallway, and I follow him, more than ready to attempt my escape.
I expect him to head for the elevator, or maybe the stairs. Anything but across the hall and casually fish a keycard from his pocket. One swipe, and the door opens.
“You rented out the suite next to mine?” I stammer open-mouthed.
He enters the suite, and his voice reaches back to me. “You mean—I rented out two suites adjacent to each other? Then yes. The fact that you manage to occupy one serves only as a testament to your remarkable ability to take from me what you may.”
“Oh, really?” I storm after him, shocked to find a suite every bit as spacious as mine. The only difference is the obsessive, painful level of neatness that I suspect goes far beyond the hotel cleaning services. There isn’t so much as a used napkin lying around, and all of his clothing appears to be neatly unpacked and stored within the walk-in closet. He enters it and proceeds to undress while eyeing his options.
I shimmy past him and gain an up-close look at what essentials a billionaire might think to pack in his travel wardrobe. Lots of black, for one. A multitude of simple, but crisply tailored suits and a boring arrangement of ties. Though professional attire isn’t all that I find dangling from wooden hangers. Tucked at the very back is an array of insultingly plain sweatshirts when compared to the quality of everything else.
“A gym rat?” I suspect out loud. That would certainly explain his remarkably fit shape. Biting my lower lip, I flick through the nearest selection of suits. Tucked amongst all the black is a collection in a deep, rich shade of navy, and I’m too tempted to resist.
“Don’t tell me your style has changed within the space of five seconds,” Vadim murmurs as I strip the suit from the hanger. “I must say that I’m curious as to how a masculine style would look on you.”
I suck in a breath but push the thought out of my mind instantly. Wearing his clothing is way too intimate. “Wear this,” I demand, whirling around to shove the suit at him. “Eww. Not that!” I playfully smack his hand away as he reaches for an ebony selection instead. “This one.”
I hold the jacket up to his chest and instantly regret the selection. “Maybe not.”
Like a shark sensing blood in the water, he snatches the garments from me and tugs them on as I watch, increasingly terrified by the overall effect.
Damn, damn, damn. Blue is so his color—to an alarming degree. It enhances the darkness reflecting in his eyes and brilliantly plays off the paleness of his chin. The only thing that could possibly enhance the look more is…
I scan the space for it, and my eyes fall over a tie organizer hanging on the opposite side of the closet. Sure enough, shoved at the very bottom in an array of muted colors is a navy one made of silk. My fingers shake as I loop it around Vadim’s neck.
“So much better,” I confess. “You’re far too handsome to avoid color.”
“Is that so?” He’s frowning as he adjusts the tie, deftly tying it. “Will you make me buy myself a wardrobe next?”
I flinch at the surly tone, but he presents a tempting possibility. “Maybe,” I say, my voice distant as I picture how he’d look in red. My throat goes dry.
“So…breakfast.” Forging a change in subject, I slip past him and re-enter the bedroom. “Where are you taking me?”
I steel myself for some insanely expensive restaurant or a McDonalds—knowing him, either option is within the realm of possibility, chosen primarily to catch me off guard.
“Downstairs,” he says, surprising me. “I have a standing reservation. It will, however, serve as a business meeting as well.”
As if to demonstrate as much, he crosses to a briefcase placed beside the entrance and lifts it. “After you.”
“Business?”
He doesn’t give me an explanation as I follow him out into the hall. We take the elevator down to the lobby, and within minutes, we’re herded to a beautiful table in the back of an elegant French restaurant.
“Are you French?” I ask him as I claim the seat across from him. I notice that the menu is in French and paired with his display from last night, I think he enjoys flaunting his bilingualism before me.
“My mother was,” he admits, opening his menu to scan the pages. “And it is my preferred culture of the many I grew up immersed in.”
“Military brat?” I say, taking a guess. He certainly has the stone-cold emotional range of someone who grew up with a hard ass, drill sergeant parent.
