“We might need some more reassurance before we start hosting meetings here,” Bane Vorsky—a Russian arms dealer I want to please—says as he leans back in his chair examining the newly-upgraded rooftop bar.
“Whatever you need,” I say. “I know there was a gap in service, but I can assure you that The Whitney is everything my father once promised you all and even more. Z and I have personally overseen every single detail of the security, the privacy, and the elements of the hotel you’ve always loved.”
“And what about Katja Belov?” Harley Crow—an ex-assassin from New Orleans—asks. “She got in the way years ago, so what would stop her again?”
“Exactly,” Atlas Giannopoulos, art thief extraordinaire and one of my oldest friends adds. “And you’ve told me she’s up to her eyeballs in debt. That has to affect The Whitney.”
“I have both Katja and the finances of The Whitney under control,” I reassure.
As I finish my sentence, I notice the doors of the bar open and Katja walks in. I can’t remember her ever visiting the rooftop before, at least not since she was a kid and came with her father on the occasional Sunday. She’s always felt it was beneath her to be seen with people like us.
I try not to allow her beauty to distract me as she finds me in the mix of these less-than-reputable men and locks eyes with mine.
“How about I go get us some shots to celebrate the upgrades? We can toast to new beginnings built on old traditions.” I stand up and make my way to the bar, signaling with my head for Katja to join me where the guests can’t overhear our conversation.
I walk behind the bar and pull out a bottle of vodka and enough shot glasses for all. I’m grateful that we aren’t open for business yet, so there isn’t a bartender that I have to shoo away.
“Why are we blessed to have the princess visiting us in the dungeon?” I ask.
She looks around, scowling at the men chatting at the table, and then back at me as she pushes a letter across the bar. “It’s asking for a lot more money.”
I don’t open the letter, but ask, “How much?”
“Does it matter at this point? A lot. And they keep coming.”
“Then pay it.”
She huffs. “You know damn well I can’t yet. And you said you were going to take care of this. Why aren’t you making it go away? Can’t you figure out who is sending these and… end it?”
I smirk.
“I’ve been doing some digging and came up with nothing,” she adds. “We’ve got to put a stop to this. I have no way to know what the repayment schedule is or what will be due when.”
“So, that’s why you came up here. Not to say hello. Not to see how business is improving. Not to oversee the profitable side of The Whitney. No. You came up here to beg for more money from your sugar daddy. And to top it all off, you want me to use my resources—that you don’t approve of—to make it all go away.”
“You’re far from my sugar daddy.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Really? I think I meet the definition perfectly.”
Katja walks behind the bar to join me so she can keep her voice low. “You know I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t have to.”
I lift my eyes from the shot I’m pouring. “And why wouldn’t you ask?” I put the bottle of vodka down and position my body so I’m facing her. “Because of your pride? Because you hate stooping to my lowly level? Because my money is dirty? Or…” I give a wicked smile. “Or because you’re afraid of the consequences?”
She raises her chin as her eyes narrow. “All of the above.”
I take hold of her hip, tugging her to me. She spins just as I press her between my chest and the bar, trapping her. My lips are so close to her ear that I know she can hear every inhale and exhale I take.
She doesn’t resist, but instead says, “I know me coming to you for continuous loans must be tiring. It’s like a merry-go-round of hell. But trust me when I say I’m determined to get off it.”
I press my hardening cock to her ass, hating the amount of clothing that stands between us. “I’m not tired. I don’t mind the ride at all.”
Trying to move her ass away from the pressure of my cock, she stiffens and her eyes dart to the men at the table. “We don’t want to make a scene,” she says. “We don’t want them to see us this close. It gives off the impression that we’re—”
“Fucking?” I growl as I nip her ear. “I like that impression.”
I take hold of the fabric of her dress and begin lifting it up.
She slaps at my hand, the bar hiding our movements. “What are you doing? Stop.” She whispers her demands, and by the way she’s watching the rooftop guests, it’s obvious she doesn’t want them to see what’s happening behind the concealing counter of the bar.