I love how criminals call their illicit activities “business.” Like it’s a legitimate thing that they get registered and that they pay taxes to the government for income reported. “That sounds . . . exciting?” I’d love to probe more about these “businesses,” but I have to slip in my questions strategically.
“Yeah . . . I don’t know yet. It’s still new.”
“You and your uncle seem like you’re close.”
“We are. He basically raised me. My dickhead dad skipped out on us when I was six. My mom’s always been a bit flaky and unstable, and when he left, she went offside. Depression and all that. She lost her job and we moved in with my grandparents.” He pauses, as if thinking back to his childhood. “Rust was only twenty-eight years old. The last thing he wanted to do was inherit two little kids, but he really stepped up. He paid for everything. Made sure I was signed up for soccer and baseball—all those kid things that my mom was too out of it to pay attention to and my grandparents really didn’t understand. They were old-school Russian, you know? Having clothes on your back and food on the table was all they ever focused on.” Yeah, I understand that. He butts his cigarette into a fancy ashtray stand and strolls over, my nose catching a mixture of cologne and tobacco as he slides into the seat next to me. Normally I can’t stand the smell of cigarette smoke, and yet for some reason it doesn’t bother me on Luke. “Rust paid for private school, for college, for my mechanic’s program. He used to take me to sports games. Spoiled me rotten, basically. Still does.” Luke chuckles. “All my friends were jealous. He paid more attention to me than any of their real dads did to them.” His voice has grown husky. “I owe Rust everything that I have.”
Enough to not give him up if you’re looking at jail time? The soft look in Luke’s eyes as he talks about his uncle makes me question whether Sinclair’s right with this plan. Would our primary target break if a figurative gun were put to his head?
I’m not so sure.
“You seem to be doing well for yourself,” I agree. “I mean, your condo, your car . . .” I don’t mean to let my eyes rake over him so overtly as I add, “ . . . you.”
He smirks, his thigh nudging up against mine as he stretches his legs out. No concern for my personal space. And I don’t mind at all. Maybe that Champagne put me over the edge. Holding up the glass of golden liquid that he brought onboard, he says, “This is a twenty-thousand-dollar glass of scotch. My second, tonight.”
I know my eyebrows are jumping halfway up my forehead but I can’t help myself. More than a third of my annual salary about to go down his throat. I hate rich people. “So, what does a twenty-thousand-dollar glass of scotch taste like?”
He offers it to me and I take it, our fingers grazing, the simple touch causing ripples through my body that I wish I didn’t feel. I should say no to hard liquor, but when am I ever going to get a chance like this again? “How am I supposed to drink this?”
Shifting even closer to me, until every part of my right side from my shoulder down to my knees is pressed against that hard body of his, he ropes an arm around my shoulders. “First, you let it coat the glass. Like this.” Covering my hand with his, I watch the liquid swirl around the glass, his fingers filling the spaces between mine. “Then you inhale.” He holds the glass up to my nose.
“Smells . . . smoky?”
With his free hand, he tucks a strand of my hair back behind my ear in a slow, almost cautious movement, before lifting the glass to my mouth. “Just a tiny sip. Just enough to taste it.” His eyes drop to my mouth as I follow instruction.
And struggle not to grimace from the potent flavor.
He grins, not offended in the slightest. “Not a fan?”
“Here.” I push it forward until it’s fully within his grasp and my hand is free. Because I’m enjoying the feel of him too much. “You drink your twenty-thousand-dollar-a-shot manly scotch and I’ll stick with this girly Champagne.” I mocked it earlier, but it’s actually quite good.
He chuckles, falling back into the couch, his eyes roaming over the interior of the yacht. Another sip. Maybe two glasses of that will loosen his tongue enough for me to pry answers from him. “I think I need to start hanging out with Aref more. I could get used to this.”
So could I, under different circumstances. “He seems nice. How do you know him?”
“I just met him tonight, actually. But I already like him.” A flash of doubt crosses his face.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, just . . .” He frowns, pausing as if to decide something. “I work for my uncle and, as much as I love him, he leaves me in the dark a lot of the time. It can get frustrating.”
His gaze wanders off over the water, seemingly deep in thought. I nudge his leg with mine. “You know, I’ve been told I’m a great listener.”
“I can believe it.” His hand falls to my back and rests there, the heat from it searing my bare flesh above my dress line. And then he heaves a sigh. “It’s nothing. Just . . . Aref wants to play a bigger role in Rust’s business and I’m trying to figure out why Rust hasn’t agreed. He’d be way better to deal with than the assholes we work with right now.”
“Assholes?”
“Yeah.” He tips his head back and finishes his drink. “Russian assholes.”