Page 9 of Crystal Wrath
“Is it?” He sets his glass down on a side table and takes a step closer. “You came here under a false name. You sought me out specifically. You’ve been watching me all night when you thought I wasn’t looking.”
Have I been that obvious? I thought I’d been careful and professional, keeping my journalistic observations subtle. But he’s been watching me watch him.
“Maybe I just find you interesting,” I admit.
“Interesting enough to risk being caught? To place yourself in a potentially dangerous situation with a man you don’t know?” He reaches out, tracing one finger along my bare collarbone. “That’s not curiosity, Elena. That’s either foolishness or attraction. Which is it?”
I don’t back away from his touch. My skin burns where his finger has been like he’s marked me in a primitive way.
“Can’t it be both?”
He chuckles a deep sound that vibrates through me. “Honest at last.”
Before I can respond, his hand comes up to cup my face, his thumb brushing over my lower lip. His eyes lock onto mine, searching for permission or resistance. I give neither, frozen in place by the sheer intensity of his gaze.
“I should warn you,” he murmurs, “I’m not a good man, Elena.”
“I never thought you were.”
Something flashes in his eyes, maybe approval or quiet respect for my candor. Then he leans down, and his lips find mine.
The kiss is nothing like I expected. I anticipate dominance, perhaps even violence. But his mouth is gentle at first, testing, teasing, coaxing a response from me. When I don’t pull away, his other hand slides around my waist, drawing me against the hard plane of his chest.
I tell myself I’m playing along with the story, and this is just part of my cover. But the lie disintegrates the moment my hands move of their own accord, sliding up his chest to his shoulders.His body is all hard muscle beneath the expensive suit, and I can feel his heat through the fabric.
The kiss deepens. His tongue traces the seam of my lips, demanding entrance, and I grant it. The taste of whiskey blends with his distinct flavor, flooding my senses. His hand at my waist slides lower, fingers splaying across my hip, pulling me tighter against him.
Warning bells clang in my mind, reminding me who he is, who I am, and what I’m doing here. But they seem distant, muffled by the blood rushing in my ears and the heat building between us.
When he finally breaks the kiss, we’re both breathing harder. He doesn’t release me, keeping one hand on my hip, the other now tangled in my hair.
“That,” he says, his voice rough, “is not what I expected when I decided to confront you tonight.”
I manage a breathless laugh. “Disappointed?”
“Intrigued.” His thumb traces my lower lip again, damp now from our kiss. “Come with me.”
It’s not a question but an assumption of compliance. In any other circumstance, with any other man, I’d bristle at the command. But something about Renat Rostov short-circuits my usual defenses. Or maybe it’s just the story. The access. The opportunity to see behind the curtain of power that shrouds Miami’s elite scene.
At least, that’s what I tell myself as I follow him out of the lounge and down another hallway, his hand firmly clasping mine.
We ascend a curved staircase to the second floor of the mansion, passing oil paintings of stern-faced Italians and ornate vases onpedestals. The music from the ballroom fades entirely, replaced by the sound of our footsteps on marble and the distant sound of the ocean through open windows.
“Where are we going?” I question.
“Somewhere private.”
He stops before a door at the end of the hall, producing a key from his pocket. The lock clicks, and he pushes the door open, gesturing for me to enter first.
The bedroom is elegant but masculine, decorated in deep blues and rich mahogany. A four-poster bed dominates one wall while floor-to-ceiling windows reveal a balcony overlooking the gardens and, beyond them, the glittering Miami skyline.
“You have a key to a bedroom in someone else’s mansion?” I raise an eyebrow, impressed despite myself.
Renat closes the door behind us, the lock clicking softly. “Victor keeps rooms for certain associates who might need...discretion.”
“How convenient.” I move to the windows, buying time to collect my thoughts. What am I doing here? This has gone far beyond research for a story. But I can’t deny the pull between us, the electric current that seems to connect my body to his across the room.
Behind me, I hear the pop of a cork. I turn to see him pouring champagne into flutes, his movements fluid.
