My stomach sinks, but then I realize no, it’s just the plane starting to descend. The door opens quickly, causing me to jump off the bed where I’ve been lying, and I see one of Anton’s men looking down at me.
“Miss,” he says. “We’re landing soon.”
“Thanks,” I reply, but he’s already closing the door behind him.
Right. Anton can’t even be bothered to tell me himself.
All this fantasizing. I really am an idiot.
I pride myself on staying grounded too. My mom sent me across the border to find a better life for myself, and I promised her I’d work my butt off until I could afford to bring her and my little brother over too. And I’m almost there. Even without Mr. Anton Todorov’s help.
I never looked to any man for assistance. Never wasted money on the lottery. Never gambled or thought any miracles would happen. Yet here I am believing that somehow I’ve just discovered true love.
“I should get my head checked,” I mutter as I step back into the cabin and take a seat across from my future husband. I catch a glimpse of something on his tablet before he puts it away—something that looks artistic.
“Taking Zoom drawing classes?”
Anton flashes me a scolding glance. “You expected photos of murdered enemies?”
I shrug. “Or other women you have chained up across the country.”
“I am a bit of an artist,” he replies. “Perhaps I will share with you sometime. If you are a good woman.”
“A good woman?” I exclaim. The audacity. “This is blackmail, Anton. Nothing more. Don’t expect me to break out the lingerie and start cooking you steak with potatoes.”
Anton leans in with such speed that I flinch as though he’s going to hit me. But he simply buckles my seatbelt and sits back. “Okay, Peaches. I will expect nothing from you.”
For some reason, his dismissal angers me. Reverse psychology? This man is good. I bite my tongue for the plane’s descent but am on my feet as soon as we stop. I’m the first to disembark and am in the back of the fancy car he has waiting for us before any of his men. To my surprise, he joins me in the back seat.
“You can sit up front,” I tell him.
“Thank you for your permission, Peaches. But I like the view from back here.”
I try to keep my eyes off him during the drive into the city. I’ve seen Vegas in the movies, but the lights are far more spectacular in person. I try to pretend I’m just on some kind of tour and am not here against my will being forced into a marriage to one of the most dangerous men in America.
But it’s next to impossible.
Anton simply exudes sexual energy. It’s like gravitational waves that I can practically feel crashing against me like a typhoon pounding against the weak sands of a beach, slowly eroding with each impact.
My eyes seem to move on their own, and I glance over at him, sitting with his legs wide like a king, a bulge in his pants signifying his prowess and reminding me of what he could do to me if he wanted. He explained it to me already…
I can’t help but wonder what he looks like beneath that suit. It’s obvious he has a killer body (and the body of a killer). Does he have any scars? From bullets or knives? Or both? Tattoos? Russian mobsters in movies are always covered in tattoos.
“Pull in here,” Anton barks to the driver. The tone of his voice causes me to start and shocks me out of my daydream (eveningdream?). The driver turns and I see a sign announcing the Graceland Wedding Chapel.
“I thought you weren’t going to dress up as Elvis?”
“And I thought you said you wanted to be Marilyn Monroe,” he counters.
The car stops, and he gets out.
This is unexpected. I get out and follow my soon-to-be-husband into the “chapel.” The neon sign buzzes above us as he holds the door for me. I almost don’t want to let him, but again, I find myself getting caught up in the moment and go in first.
“Why hello there, lovebirds!” a man, who I assume is the salesman/owner/minister announces with a Southern twang. “Welcome to the Las Vegas Graceland Wedding Chapel! The best place on the strip to get hitched!”
I look up at Anton, who is standing beside me with smiling eyes, and again, still having not learned my lesson, I allow myself to hope.
The next hour is a blur of trying on dresses, protocol and legal jargon being rapidly read to me in that same thick Southern accent, forms being signed, and the next thing I know, I’m waiting for Anton to step out of the men’s dressing room like the two of us have just gone shopping together.