The Professional (2 page)

Between guffaws, she said, “That’s a completely fair statement!”

We could laugh about it now, but I’d lived with the aftermath of her affairs: the desperate gifts, the late-night phone calls, the stalking.

What was the point of all the drama? Of all that angst? Dating, love, and sex were all overrated—as I’d repeatedly tried to explain to Jess. She would get this secretive smile and say, “You’re gonna get blindsided one day. I only hope I’m there to see it. . . .”

When the laughter died down, Polly said, “Do
him
,” with a wave at the door.

“Fine.” Exhaling with boredom—
earn your booze, carny
—I turned toward the entrance. And saw the baddest-looking man I’d ever encountered.

His eyes were a vivid gold, stark against his thick black hair. He wore it longish, the ends brushing his collar. He had a roman nose that had likely been broken and a razor-thin scar that sliced down across both lips. A fighter?

Yet that didn’t fit with his expensive clothing: a tailored black coat and dress shirt, dark gray slacks, black leather shoes and belt. Through Jess, I’d learned enough about fashion to recognize fine threads. His outfit probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.

When he stood at the bar and ordered a drink, I saw that he had three rings on one hand, a ring on his other thumb, and a wicked-looking tattoo peeking out from his starch-stiff collar. His style was a mix of privileged and street.

He was tall, with a lean, muscular build, and looked maybe twenty-nine or thirty, but his face was weary, as an older man’s would be. With those rough-hewn features, he was ruggedly handsome, yet not classically so.

There was an aura of ennui about him, but he also seemed hyper-alert. What the hell? My internal manalyzer whirred with confusion.
Does not compute!

I could feel my friends staring at me, but I was at a loss. “I . . . I got nothing.” Was he a brawler or a rich playboy or both? I was also sensing top notes of
European
—along with strong undertones of
dangerous!

He was like a history book written in a script I’d never seen. Fascinating.

Jess pinched my side, drawing my attention to her smug grin. “You can close your mouth now, hooker.” In a patronizing tone,
she said, “Welcome to my world—where first meetings are always in slo-mo and the song ‘At Last’ repeats on a loop.”

No, no, her world was angsty and overwrought. So why had my gaze darted back to the man?

“That’s one hot piece of tackle—in a cage-fighter/
GQ
model mash-up kind of way.” Jess wasn’t going to let this go. “Probably gets more ass than a toilet seat. But he got you to look twice, which makes him a rare and wondrous creature, this bar’s very own unicorn. Requires closer investigation, don’t you think?”

I could question him, type him, then discard all thoughts of him. I was just tipsy enough to consider it. “I should go up and introduce myself?”

She nodded. “Unless you’re a twat. Now, go forth with confidence, for you look cute-iful tonight.”

Jess’s style was
SEXY GLAM!
Mine?
See-me-love-me, motherfleckers
. Yet tonight, I was wearing a hip-hugging suede skirt and a slinky red top—one of Jess’s fashion-forward, low-cut numbers. For once, my bra wasn’t a minimizer.

This outfit had come about because the clothes I’d normally wear—jeans and a turtleneck—were all in an overflowing laundry hamper. I’d worn the black knee-high boots Jess had bought me, to show appreciation in front of her.

I rose, smoothed my wavy hair over my shoulder, then tugged down my skirt, prompting Jess to give me a loud slap on the ass for encouragement. As I passed their table, Ill-Equipped and Habitual Drunk raised their glasses to me, which didn’t hurt my confidence.

Once I was halfway over to Badass, his eyes locked on me. His gaze grew heated, and immediately the area felt smaller, warmer. I squelched the urge to fan myself. For the first time in my life, I was a little . . .
giddy
.

When I sidled up to him at the bar, he turned fully to me. Up close, he was even more intimidating, even more attractive. Taller than I’d thought.

His spellbinding eyes were the color of amber, irises ringed with black.

As I noted additional details—scarred knuckles, tattoos on his fingers under those rings, chiseled jawline clean-shaven—I perceived the heat coming off his big body. Then I got my first mind-numbing hit of his scent.

Crisp, masculine, intoxicating.

Blindsiding.

Speak, Nat.
I had to look up to face him. “Uh, hi, I’m Natalie.” I offered him my hand to shake. He didn’t take it.
Okay . . .
I swallowed. “Can I buy you a drink?” Was that a vodka rocks he’d ordered? He didn’t look like a 7&7 type of guy.

He canted his head, studying my face—the same way I studied men’s expressions. Still he said nothing. Maybe he didn’t speak the language. UNL had a lot of overseas students. “Drink?” I pointed to his untouched glass and mimed a shot.

His expression gave away so little, it was like I was talking to a wall.

As my cheeks flushed, I muttered, “Sooo, this went well. Good talk, buddy.” With a mortified smile, I turned around—

A callused palm closed around my elbow, his rings cool compared to his skin. The contact was so electric, I shivered.

“Wait,” he said. Had there been a subtle
v
sound to that
w
?

My heart leapt—maybe he was . . . Russian. I turned around, a genuine smile on my face now. “Are you from Russia?” I added,
“Zdrav-stvooi-tee.”  
Hello.

He still cupped my elbow. How could his hand be so hot? I
stifled imaginings of him cupping other parts of me, those hands spreading heat in their wake. . . .

“You speak my language, then?”

Bingo, a Russian! “A bit,” I said with delight. I could grill him about the country, learning more about my birthplace! “I took a class or two.” Or five. My master’s had required fluency in a second language, and I’d chosen Russian.

He swept his glance around, his stance alert, as if someone might throw a punch at any second. Then he met my gaze once more. “Of all the men in this bar, you choose me to approach?” His English was very good, though heavily accented. “Are you looking for trouble?”

With a confidence I didn’t feel, I teasingly said, “Maybe I am.” I sounded breathy—I still hadn’t caught my breath since he’d first touched me. “Have I found it?”

He glanced down, seeming surprised that he was still holding my arm. He abruptly released me, growing angrier by the second. “No, little girl. You have not.” With a disgusted look, he turned away and stalked out.

I stared at the door, battling my bewilderment.
What just happened?
I’d seen interest in his gaze, hadn’t I?

Yet then he’d acted like a vampire who’d discovered I was a fucking sunbeam.

“W
hat the hell, did you bite him?” “Did you insult his manhood?” “Let me smell your breath.”

I’d stayed at the bar long enough to take my ribbing, because it was deserved and because I was a good goddamned sport. In general, I tried not to take myself too seriously—I called myself “the manalyst,” after all. My life’s motto: Joke ’em if they can’t take a fuck.

A few shots later, I’d made my farewells and drunkenly set out for home, the pad I shared with Jess about five blocks away.

Tons of students were out, blowing off steam before midterms. It was a chilly fall night, with a full moon overhead. I pulled my jacket tighter. This close to harvest, the smell of ripe corn carried on the air—always a time of excitement for me since I was a farm girl at heart.

Yet another hand-holding couple passed me, and I gazed after them with a little wistfulness. Even if I had zero tolerance for men and their drama, I wouldn’t mind having someone to snuggle up with this winter.

Someone to notice that my hands were cold and to hold them between his own.

Don’t think of the Russian, don’t think of . . .

Too late. I didn’t exactly see myself strolling around campus all
fa la la
with a guy like that. But there’d been
something
about him—

A sudden sense that I was being watched hit me. Running a palm over my nape, I swept a glance around me. I only saw students meandering the streets, crowding into and out of various bars.

Probably just the tequila getting to me. Or stress from this week’s insane work schedule. Safety-wise, the only scary thing about this campus was its deadly dullness.

Shaking off my unease, I dug my phone out of my pocket and checked e-mail. Nothing from Zironoff. I was beginning to think I’d gotten scammed by my investigator. It wouldn’t be the first time one of them had ripped me off. Had I blown a year of tips on that DNA dickwad?

There was an e-mail from Mom, wondering why I was working so much, worrying. If she ever found out about my quest, she’d take it personally, and we didn’t need any more friction between us.

Finally home, I meandered up the walk that wound through our yard. Our place was a cute mid-century bungalow, owned by Jess’s parents. She called it the Bunghole, a perfect indication of her maturity level.

Inside, I shed my coat on the way to the kitchen. Chilled Gatorade, my secret hangover preventative, awaited me.

Hearing a sound from the front of the house, I called from the fridge, “Jess, that you?” I sounded
tanked
. “Whatcha doing back?” Maybe she’d struck out for once? We could commiserate.

No answer. I shrugged—the Bunghole emitted more banging and moans than a porn set.

I closed the fridge. Half of the door was covered with glossy
pics from Jess’s pervasive fashion magazines. My half was covered with postcards. She sent them from all the exciting locales she visited each break. Though I had an open invitation from her family and yearned to travel, I was constantly working. I’d never even been outside of the Midwest.

I’d never seen a seashore, much less the Eiffel Tower.

If I had a dollar for every time I’d gazed at these cards while promising myself,
One day . . .
well, I wouldn’t need to work three jobs.

After downing my Gatorade dose, I swerved to my room, knotting my hair atop my head for a bath. Minutes later, when I eased back into the steaming water, another wave of drunken disappointment settled over me.

Now that I’d crashed and burned on my first pickup, I had to wonder how guys kept hitting on women, forever risking rejection. I mused over all the men I’d turned down—had I torpedoed their mojo?

I just couldn’t figure out why that Russian had been so angry. And what the hell had been so off-putting about me? I wasn’t a beauty like Jess, but I’d had male interest ever since I’d sprouted mammaries.

Curious, I ran my palms down my legs. They were fit from standing for hours on end while waiting tables, just as my arms were lean from hefting trays.

My hands ascended to my hips. Admittedly, they were wide, but my waist was narrow. And my breasts? They were fairly big, bobbing now in the water, coral-colored nipples puckering just above the surface. My rack had been on display tonight; that Russian hadn’t given it a second glance.

But what if I
hadn’t
repelled him? What would those hot, rough palms of his have felt like kneading my chest? At the
thought, I experienced a surge of arousal so strong it startled me. My nipples stiffened even more. When the bathwater lapped at them, my breath hitched.

I’d talked to him for less than two minutes, seen him for less than ten, and his effect on me was this strong?

To hell with it—he could spurn me all he wanted to, but he couldn’t keep me from fantasizing about him. With a mental
Screw you, Russian,
I reached between my legs to stroke, picturing his broad shoulders, his square jawline, his mouth. Those hooded golden eyes.

Even in the water, I could tell how slick my pussy had grown, my forefinger gliding along my lips, parting them. When I reached my clitoris, I found it swollen and supersensitive.

Sighing with need, I began to rub the bud in slow circles. My lids slid shut, and my knees fell wide against the sides of the tub. With my free hand, I petted my breasts, thumbing my nipples till they strained. . . .

I debated fetching one of my trusty vibrators from under the bed. But then I pictured the Russian kissing down my torso with that scorching expression, and realized B.O.B. could sit this one out.

Though I’d never had a guy go down on me, I could all but see the Russian’s dark head between my thighs as he began to lick. Another stroke had me undulating in the water, gasping. His lips would be firm against my weeping flesh as he hungrily tongued me. He’d want me wetter and wetter, and I’d oblige.

In this fantasy, my aching clit wasn’t throbbing against my finger, but against his greedy tongue.

As my body tensed for my orgasm, every inch of me seemed to gather in on itself, like a star about to explode. I rubbed my palm over my taut nipples, another shot of stimulation. So close,
only a couple more strokes . . . I cracked open my eyes to watch myself writhing in the throes. Corner of my vision, strangest thing . . . through the steam, I thought I saw the Russian.