where I’m staying. Henley isn’t a man to trust blindly. He knows everything about me. I suck in my breath. “You know who I am.”
Henley unfastens my seat belt. His fingertips skim along my breasts, leaving a trail of delectable sensation. “And who are you, Katalina Volkov?” He brushes a curl away from my face, his eyes glowing. “I don’t know yet. All I know is who you are to me.”
John, the smartly dressed doorman, opens my door. I act as though I don’t see him, stubbornly keeping my gaze fixed on Henley’s arresting face.
“Who am I to you?” I ask, not knowing if I want to hear the answer. Am I a fast fling, an employee to watch, a possible threat to Blaine Technologies?
“You’re my tomorrow.” Henley captures my face between his big hands and I smile, his words warming me. “I’ll pick you up at six o’clock in the morning. Be ready.”
“I’m ready right now.” I turn my head and press my lips against his ravaged right palm. “Don’t die on me, Henley.” I reluctantly pull away from him. “You’re my tomorrow also.” I allow John to help me out of the car and I enter the hotel, resigned to braving another night alone.
Chapter Five
----
T HE NEXT MORNING I stand outside of the front doors of the hotel and wait for Henley. I hope he arrives soon. The cup of coffee I clutch in my gloved hands is growing colder with each passing minute, the brisk morning breeze sweeping over my bare legs.
I’m not waiting alone. Orlando, a good-looking Italian multimillionaire, keeps me company. He describes his stable of beloved Ferraris, his words flowing and poetic, his hands shooting out dramatically in all directions, an unlit cigarette trapped between two of his long fingers.
I suspect once I leave, he’ll light this cigarette, Orlando having no regard for the no-smoking sign prominently displayed by the double doors. The daytime doorman, also named John, isn’t around to uphold the law; the young man is helping a cheek-pinching grandmother from Chicago squeeze three huge pieces of designer luggage into a little red Porsche.
“This half man, your lover, is a fool.” Orlando waves his unlit cigarette in the air, his fingers slender and graceful. “To allow a woman so . . . so . . .” He struggles to find the word. English isn’t his first language.
“Breasty?” I supply cheerfully.
“ Bellissimo .” He chooses a more acceptable term. “To eat alone, sleep alone, stand on the corner alone. It is disgraceful. When you are mine I will treat you like a queen.”
I admire his optimism and wonder once again why I’m not attracted to him. He’s tall, fit, has thick wavy black hair, dark eyes, tanned skin, and that charm European men have perfected, yet when I look at him, my body yawns. It seems I only lust after behemoths or foolish half men, as Orlando calls them.
Tires crunch on stone. I try to look around Orlando, but every time I move, he moves also, staying in my line of vision. “This might be my ride.”
“This?” Orlando turns around and scowls. It is Henley’s car and my heart skips a beat. “ This car is not worthy of you, cara . It is . . . how do you say it?” He outlines a box with his fingers and scowls.
Henley exits his boxy car, straightens to his full height, and Orlando’s mouth drops open. I beam at my behemoth, his size thrilling me, and Henley strides toward me, his eyes as black as his outfit. Today his suit is French, a hint of a pinstripe softening the black fabric, the lapels finely crafted. He’s paired it with a black shirt and very expensive black leather shoes.
Henley’s gaze lowers and his lips curl upward. I’m wearing a pale yellow skirt suit with scallop details, a white belt, white slingback heels, and the prettiest white lace wrist-length gloves I’ve ever had the good fortune to own. The suit is one of my father’s favorites. He always smiles when he sees me wearing it, calling me his sunshine. Today I also carry a
Henley unfastens my seat belt. His fingertips skim along my breasts, leaving a trail of delectable sensation. “And who are you, Katalina Volkov?” He brushes a curl away from my face, his eyes glowing. “I don’t know yet. All I know is who you are to me.”
John, the smartly dressed doorman, opens my door. I act as though I don’t see him, stubbornly keeping my gaze fixed on Henley’s arresting face.
“Who am I to you?” I ask, not knowing if I want to hear the answer. Am I a fast fling, an employee to watch, a possible threat to Blaine Technologies?
“You’re my tomorrow.” Henley captures my face between his big hands and I smile, his words warming me. “I’ll pick you up at six o’clock in the morning. Be ready.”
“I’m ready right now.” I turn my head and press my lips against his ravaged right palm. “Don’t die on me, Henley.” I reluctantly pull away from him. “You’re my tomorrow also.” I allow John to help me out of the car and I enter the hotel, resigned to braving another night alone.
Chapter Five
----
T HE NEXT MORNING I stand outside of the front doors of the hotel and wait for Henley. I hope he arrives soon. The cup of coffee I clutch in my gloved hands is growing colder with each passing minute, the brisk morning breeze sweeping over my bare legs.
I’m not waiting alone. Orlando, a good-looking Italian multimillionaire, keeps me company. He describes his stable of beloved Ferraris, his words flowing and poetic, his hands shooting out dramatically in all directions, an unlit cigarette trapped between two of his long fingers.
I suspect once I leave, he’ll light this cigarette, Orlando having no regard for the no-smoking sign prominently displayed by the double doors. The daytime doorman, also named John, isn’t around to uphold the law; the young man is helping a cheek-pinching grandmother from Chicago squeeze three huge pieces of designer luggage into a little red Porsche.
“This half man, your lover, is a fool.” Orlando waves his unlit cigarette in the air, his fingers slender and graceful. “To allow a woman so . . . so . . .” He struggles to find the word. English isn’t his first language.
“Breasty?” I supply cheerfully.
“ Bellissimo .” He chooses a more acceptable term. “To eat alone, sleep alone, stand on the corner alone. It is disgraceful. When you are mine I will treat you like a queen.”
I admire his optimism and wonder once again why I’m not attracted to him. He’s tall, fit, has thick wavy black hair, dark eyes, tanned skin, and that charm European men have perfected, yet when I look at him, my body yawns. It seems I only lust after behemoths or foolish half men, as Orlando calls them.
Tires crunch on stone. I try to look around Orlando, but every time I move, he moves also, staying in my line of vision. “This might be my ride.”
“This?” Orlando turns around and scowls. It is Henley’s car and my heart skips a beat. “ This car is not worthy of you, cara . It is . . . how do you say it?” He outlines a box with his fingers and scowls.
Henley exits his boxy car, straightens to his full height, and Orlando’s mouth drops open. I beam at my behemoth, his size thrilling me, and Henley strides toward me, his eyes as black as his outfit. Today his suit is French, a hint of a pinstripe softening the black fabric, the lapels finely crafted. He’s paired it with a black shirt and very expensive black leather shoes.
Henley’s gaze lowers and his lips curl upward. I’m wearing a pale yellow skirt suit with scallop details, a white belt, white slingback heels, and the prettiest white lace wrist-length gloves I’ve ever had the good fortune to own. The suit is one of my father’s favorites. He always smiles when he sees me wearing it, calling me his sunshine. Today I also carry a
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