Page 14 of Sin Wager
"That sounds expensive."
"Let me worry about the expense. You worry about saying yes."
She stares at me for a long moment, then nods slowly. "Okay. Yes. I'd like that."
"Good. I'll pick you up at seven tomorrow evening. Wear something nice, but not too formal. You'll be perfect no matter what you choose."
She opens the car door and steps out, then leans down to look at me through the open window. "Thank you again for the ride. And for… everything else."
"Thank you for saying yes."
I watch her walk to her building's entrance, noting how she glances back twice before disappearing through the door. The second glance lasts longer than the first.
Tomorrow night, I'll begin extracting the information I need about her Radich connections. But tonight, I file awayeverything she told me about her family, her neighborhood, her vulnerabilities.
Knowledge is power. And power is what I need to survive.
7
VERA
The restaurant Misha brings me to looks expensive, all dark wood and brass fixtures, where you need reservations weeks in advance. Or a name—which I'm sure Misha has, though he's never told me his last name yet. Through the windows, I see white tablecloths and crystal glasses catching candlelight.
My stomach twists as he parks the car. I should've asked where we were going. The dress I chose suddenly feels inadequate—a simple black number I bought years ago for my cousin's wedding. It's the nicest thing I own, but against this backdrop, it screamsbargain bin.
Misha steps out and comes around to open my door and offers me his hand. I take it and step out with him into the cold winter air. He wears a charcoal suit that fits him perfectly, the jacket tailored to his lean frame. His dark hair is combed back from his face, revealing those sharp cheekbones and ice-blue eyes that seem to see everything.
"You look beautiful," he says, and the way he looks at me makes me believe he means it.
"Thank you. You look…" I gesture helplessly at his appearance. "This place is incredible. Are you sure they'll have room for us?"
"I made reservations." He places his hand at the small of my back and guides me toward the entrance. "Trust me."
The hostess greets him by his first name and leads us through the dining room to a booth in the back corner. The table sits in a pocket of privacy, separated from other diners by a curved wall lined with books. Misha slides in across from me and signals the waiter.
"Two glasses of the Bordeaux," he says without consulting a menu. "And we'll have the duck confit and the lamb, medium rare."
The waiter nods and disappears. I stare at Misha across the table.
"You ordered for me." I think for a moment that I should be offended, that I should tell him I am well able to look at a menu and pick what I want. But the gesture seems sweet, not overbearing. And Misha is paying for this. No way I can afford it.
"You don't like duck?"
"I've never had duck. I don't know if I like it." My fingers nervously pluck at the buttons of my coat before I slide it from my shoulders.
"You'll love it. The chef here prepares it with cherry sauce and roasted vegetables. The lamb is excellent too—we can share both dishes."
I should be annoyed and insist on ordering my own meal, choosing my own wine. But the confidence in his voice, the way he seems to know exactly what will please me, sends warmth spreading through my chest instead of irritation.
"How can you be so sure?"
"You have good instincts about food. I watched you at lunch yesterday—you chose the healthiest option on the menu, but youwere eyeing the more indulgent dishes. You want to try new things, but you're practical about spending money. Tonight, you can have both."
The wine arrives, deep red in crystal glasses that catch the flickering candlelight. Misha raises his glass to mine.
"To new experiences."
The wine is smoother than anything I've ever tasted, rich and complex on my tongue. I take another sip and feel my shoulders relax.
