Without another word, he helps me up off his desk and fixes his clothes while I fix mine. I’m shaking, but it’s not because of the sex we just had. It’s because of what I must do next. It’s now or never.
“That was exactly what I needed.” He pulls me to him, his lips brushing against mine.
“Why? What’s going on?” I press, knowing that the bug is activated, picking up everything we’re saying, and everything that just happened. It’s humiliating to think about, so I’m not going to.
He shakes his head. “It’s stuff you don’t need to worry about.” He buries his face in my neck, but I push him away.
“No, you don’t. Don’t pull that ‘you’re too precious, little lady’ shit on me. We’re past that. I’m your wife.” The word nearly catches in my throat, and I take a moment to clear it. “I’m your partner. That’s what couples do, they talk and tell each other things to help ease the burden.”
He smiles at me. An unguarded, warm smile that makes me want to claw my eyes out. “Is that so?” he asks, tracing my jaw with his fingers. “I’ll keep that in mind, but right now, I don’t want to think about all this shit. Let’s go upstairs, get some food, take a bath, do it all over again.” He waggles his eyebrows at me. This man is insatiable.
“Uh-huh,” I say, my heart pounding in my throat as I bend down to start collecting the strewn items from his desk off the floor. This is my moment. My eyes dart around the room, seeking the best place to plant the bug.
A large framed abstract painting hangs behind his desk. It looks like the kind of thing one might see in a museum, a collector piece, the kind of thing that may get lent out to a museum. So forget that. None of the lamps in this room have shades, they’re all industrial-design chic with exposed bulb and curved metal stands. But then my eyes fall on a large potted fern in the corner, and I know I’ve found my spot.
“What are you doing?” His voice is dark and menacing, or maybe it only seems that way.
“Cleaning up,” I squeak, not making eye contact with him, continuing to straighten up his office.
“You don’t have to. I pay people to do that.”
For a moment I think my treacherous heart will pound straight out of my chest. Does he know? Did my shaking hands and averted eyes give me away? I breathe deeply and give him a big smile over my shoulder.
“That’s not how I was raised, cowboy. You make a mess, you clean it up.” For one tense moment, the air is sucked out of the room. With my back facing him, I shut my eyes and wait for what’s coming. But he just chuckles and bends down to join me in collecting the items tossed about the room.
“I like that you care. I can see you’ll raise our kids well.”
What the fuck. Of all the times to bring up us having kids… Why now?! My skin is on fire, burning everywhere, but I fight to stay calm and focused. Drawing in a slow deep breath, I force a small smile. “That’s right,” I agree. “These are important skills.”
He takes the other side of the room while my focus remains on the fern by his desk. I busy myself retrieving things off the floor, straightening up knickknacks, and finally, when there is one last item by the plant, I reach down and, with a furtive glance towards Daniil, slip the bug underneath the base of the potted plant.
“Are you fixing my plant?” Daniil’s voice booms behind me and I nearly jump out of my skin. “You are one of a kind, printsessa.”
My pulse is thudding in my ears, but I force the fear down, and gaze up at him. Sucking in a lungful of air, I stand and brush the hair out of my face, bracing myself for the best acting job of my life.
I can’t forget why I’m here.
“Plants are important,” I mumble. “They clean the air.”
If only they cleaned my fetid, rotting soul, because I know there’s a special place in hell for me.
CHAPTERTWENTY-SEVEN
BIANCA
As we pullup to the Bellair, a line of valets are busy opening the back doors of the stretch limos and Bentleys that idle in front of the casino. A light show worthy of a Lady Gaga concert casts the front of the building in swirling shades of red, blue, and yellow—a special touch for a special night.
Tonight is the fundraiser for the arts school Georgia supports. It’ll be a who's who of New York society mixed with the underworld's biggest names—much like the opening night of the casino when Daniil and I first met.
We step out of the limo, and with a possessive hand wrapped around my hip, Daniil leads me through the grand lobby with its gilded frescoed ceilings. “This feels strange,” he murmurs. “I never come in through the front entrance.”
With that comment, we’re stopped by a photographer who asks us to pose together in front of a large fountain, the centerpiece of the elegant lobby. We pose together, one of Daniil’s hands is on my lower back as we’re instructed to smile, and the photographer gets off a bunch of shots. My smile is stiff, too formal… too forced. I hope to hell I never see these pictures in print. I don’t want to remember this evening.
Daniil leans forward and whispers into my neck, “Have I mentioned how fucking gorgeous you look tonight?”
I flash him a smile in return, all the while praying he can’t feel my thumping heart or sense the nerves fluttering about in my stomach. Because burning a hole in my crystal-flecked clutch is the final listening device that I need to plant in Daniil’s casino office.
It’s been two weeks since I stowed the last one under the plant, and in that time, Daniil has barely worked out of his office at the Kozlov estate. It’s not that he hasn’t been home, he has, but when he is, he’s spending time with me. It would be appreciated if I didn’t have ulterior motives.