The Imposter

Chapter Two

Ben laughed—until he realized I was serious. “Natalie couldn’t get a word out of him.”

Last night, when Ben had heard the Romanovs were headed down to the VIP lounge, he’d sent me home and called in the family’s MVP for a milk-cow con—one of the most difficult of the lengthy cons.

In a milk-cow, a temptress would whip a victim into a s****l frenzy, teasingly delaying intercourse to coax him into purchasing jewelry, vehicles, even real estate.

“Not a single word.” Ben shook his head. “Even though Nikolai was dateless, and she was on.”

If Natalie couldn’t persuade the Russian to engage, then he wasn’t engage-able. But I spoke about a huge game. “So, I won't be wasting a possible score, right?”

“Don’t be pissed.”

I gave Ben my handbag. “Pissed? Me? Haven’t you heard?” I moved towards the stairs, whispering over my shoulder, "I'm hard-as-stone.”

In actuality, I was so upset I nearly stomped up the stairs. But I restrained my rage, stopping my heels from pounding the ceramic surface. Maybe I could sneak up on Nikolai and study him unawares.

I knew the essentials about him from Ben’s voluminous notes. Thirty-two years old, a resident of Russia, raised in Alaska.

Youngest of the three brothers. A computer and math genius.

He’d graduated at the top of his class from Oxford, then built a firm that transformed areas of corporate computers. He’d cashed out with a handful of patents, retiring a millionaire. Yet there were few references of him online—and zero images.

As I went onto the deck, I lifted my brows at the beast’s opulent habitat. Fire pits lit the area. A hot tub emitted steam beneath a trellis covered in wisteria, while a fountain with mosaic tiles splashed against the back wall. A fully equipped bar stood off to the side, unattended.

I noticed Nikolai near the railing, soaking in the city’s perspective. Not another person was up here.

I quietly approached, noticing facts about him. He had a powerful frame and stood well over six feet, much higher than my ex’s six foot three.

My grandma would call Nikolai Romanov a mountain of a man. He’d tower above my five feet five.

His pricey clothing was so nicely constructed, I almost salivated. He wore cut gray pants that accented his small hips and firm ass . His charcoal-colored shirt clung to his back and arm muscles.

Beneath the thin cloth, I could see his triceps bulging as he white-knuckled the barrier. Similar to Bruce Banner keeping the Hulk at bay. Ben had informed me he’d picked up occasional stress between Nikolai and Ivan, the eldest Romanov sibling. Perhaps they’d clashed and Nikolai was taking out his displeasure on others?

If Nikolai was so upset, why not go back to his room? Why not take his riches and travel someplace else?

In the following second, everything I suspected got flipped upside down—because Nikolai’s head dipped back, and his big shoulders lifted and sank in a sigh. Even from this perspective I could see he was looking at the full moon.

People didn’t typically do it while stewing; they did it when they felt remorse, or even desire.

A spark of sympathy erupted. His family was immediately below, yet he stayed here all by himself.

That was the problem with the beast from fairy tales; he didn’t want to be a beast. He didn’t want to be alone.

Nikolai eventually loosened his grasp to massage his temples.

Curiosity to see his face won out, so I moved toward the other end of the railing, letting my heels click.

He lowered his hands, and his muscles clenched even more. “How many times do I have to reiterate this?” he gritted out, his accent heavy. As he turned toward me, he utters sharply “I—AM—NOT—f*****g—IN . . . .” He stopped talking, looking surprised.

I know the sensation. Nikolai Romanov was . . . outstanding.

His gorgeous, muscular visage swindled your air and left your lungs holding the bag.

Thick black hair, sharp cheekbones. Proud, slender nose and a rough jaw. His eyes were burning amber.

wonderful, wonderful beast. I almost reeled on my feet. I never did it, save as a cover for pick-pocketing.

Once the furious set of his jaw loosened, his lips went from thinned to oh-so-kissable. That bright stare of his ran over my body from my heels to the top of my head. “You . . .” he gasped.

Make the discussion, Vice. “Me?” I knew we hadn’t met. Because his face would’ve been imprinted into my head forever.

“. . . are stunning. The sight of you has overpowered my wits.”

Huh? Guys thought I was lovely, but in the realm of long-legged showgirls and surgically enhanced models, it took a lot to stand out. (I’d always assured myself I would smash it in Reno.) And what about Natalie? Perhaps he had left his contact behind last night. Instead of driving me away, the beast strolled over to join me. I had to tilt my head up to meet his stare. Well, hey there, huge dude.

He stood so close I could feel the heat radiating off his body. I got a trace of his aftershave—evergreen and something mysterious—and I wanted to purr. No, not a hint—a smack. His fragrance is like a narcotic poisoning the air.

In a loud declaration, he proclaimed, "My name is Nikolai Romanov, you tell me your name." He then exhibited an excessive level of familiarity by tugging on a stray strand of my hair, its color contrasting sharply against his tanned complexion.

Engagement! What if I genuinely could run this guy? “I’m Isabella Coleson.” My steady tone was striking.

“Izabellaa.” The way he dragged out the end of my name, rumbling the final word, made my cheeks heat.

I’d never been able to control my blushing, no matter how much grief my folks gave me over a tell. “It’s nice to meet you.

But I think you were ready to holler at me that you weren’t goddamned interested?”

Color tinted his own cheeks, and he dropped my hair. “The women here have been . . . persistent.”

“Numerous men would consider this to be an advantageous position to be in.”

“The women weren’t the only irritation,” he continued. “I had the sense that tonight would be different in some way. I was disappointed.”

“I figured.”

“Why?” His gaze moved across my face, taking a moment to linger on each of my facial features, as if memorizing them.

“People who sigh at the moon are usually filled with regret or longing.” Now that I’d captured his attention, it was time to be elusive. “I’ll leave you to it, big guy.” I turned toward the stairs. Chase me, chase me. . . .

Nikolai raced to cut me off. “However, I am no longer disappointed since this curvy little blonde appeared, because in the moonlight, she looks like an angel. I am currently in urgent need of one.”

Angel? To preserve my family, I’d slit his nuts with a hangnail if I had to. “What if I’m not an angel? What if I’m a she-demon?

Would you lock horns with me?”

He nodded seriously. “I would very much like to lock anything with you.”

He seemed serious, yet I found myself repressing a smile. “Locking horns can be very meaningful, Mr. Romanov, and we’ve only just met.”

One corner of his mouth quirked. “Call me Nikolai. Or Niko.” He positioned himself between me and the stairs.

“You've been bellowing at women all night, yet you’re preventing me from leaving? I'm not sure whether to feel happy or worried.”

“You heard that?” Another blush across their cheeks.

“I was out on the terrace. I noted that you were like a beast from a fairy tale, alone in his lair.”

Holding my eyes, he whispered, “I’ve found Beauty.”

My toes curled. I’d been prepared for fury and blustering, not charm. My gaze sank to his wide bottom lip. I got the impulse to suck on it.

Though I’d had every intention of committing the deed with someone since my divorce, no one had enticed me sufficiently. What would it be like to kiss this Russian? To sleep with him?

“I won’t prevent you from leaving,” he replied, “but I invite you to stay.” His hair was close-cut at the sides, but longer on top.

A wind ruffled their thick locks.

“How can you guarantee that you won't lose your temper once more, Nikolai?”

His lids went heavy—as though he relished the way I pronounced his name. “I am confident that I can act appropriately as long as I am incentivized with a sufficiently delightful reward.”

“You believe? You don’t know?”

“This is foreign territory for me. I'm really fond of my new guide.”

Did he, then? My good-girl façade was paying off! Imagine if I had the opportunity to pull my very first milk-cow with a billionaire? That would show everyone! And more significantly . . . That would rescue everyone.

The con was on. “Perhaps you’re using me to keep other women away.”

“Perhaps, I deliberately distanced myself from everyone else, solely to have you as the one person standing before me.”

I inclined my head at him. “Perhaps, your purpose is to incite jealousy in someone else," which could clarify the reason behind all this unexpected interest. “Twice you’ve accused me of using you. Are you using me?”

Clever dude. I’d have to be cautious with this one. “I came up here to enjoy the view." You’re the visitor chatting with the local girl.” In the timeframe of a con, we’d just had “the meet.”

I looked over my shoulder, wanting Ben to see this. Nikolai’s got a little coin in his pocket going jingle lingle ling!

I would totally fake-flirt with this Russian, in order to push him into phony near-s*x scenarios.

I would be great for a milk-cow, since I didn’t lose control sexually, even when I was meant to.

“Do you want to get back to someone?” Nikolai asked. “Are you here with another man?”

Surely I misheard the envy in his tone. “Your VIP host invited me. Benjamin Coleson’s my cousin.”

“Ah, yes. He helped smooth up the near arrest of my sister-in-law’s friend.”

Anabelle, the tagalong, was great friends with Karen Romanov, the PhD redhead.

We’d been psyched about Anabelle’s difficulties with the police, thinking dirt! But Ben had heard the lady pleading for a “pic with the po-po.” For her blog. “You guys must’ve been having a ton of fun for the LVPD to step in.” The five-o appeared to have given up on my family and our KAs.

“Anabelle seems to attract trouble wherever she travels," Nikolai remarked with a puzzled tone, "but despite that, she is always invited to join the group wherever they go." “I think she’s funny. As I passed her downstairs, she was wondering aloud whether a local plant-eater would be a ‘vegan Las Vegan.’ Then she executed a spot-on Lady Gaga impression.”

“Funny?” Nikolai looked to be analyzing this information.

“Yep.” Ben had informed me he’d walked in on Anabelle in the men’s restroom, voguing and primping her hair. Upon noticing him, she’d raised a leg and dropped her heel on the counter to flaunt her junk. “My hair stylist convinced me to go for this natural look," she had told him, "but I'm still not entirely sure about it. What say you, Benjamin Pumpkin Eater?” And she assumed he was heterosexual.

Nikolai offered a quick nod. “Anabelle is around your age. You would want to associate with her. I will take you inside.”

“Hold on, I don't mean to impose," he seemed eager to make a formal introduction, "Ben mentioned you're here to celebrate something." I anxiously bit my lower lip.

His eyes clocked the tiny movement. “Da. Karen, my eldest brother’s wife, finished her PhD. And my middle brother and his wife recently marked their four-year anniversary.” Maxim, the retired politician, and his gorgeous Latina heiress, Elena.

Ben had learnt the duo owned half of Miami and were remodeling it while they purchased the other half. “Those are some great accomplishments. Most folks come here to celebrate earning a salary on Friday.”

He lifted his eyes from my lips. “You do sound like a local.”

“Spanning three generations." My mother is part of a lineage of serial brides and my father comes from a carnival background.

They’d never leave this city.

“What do you do here?”

“I sling drinks downstairs. Just like my sister does.” I had to figure out why he chose to talk to me instead of my sister. Grifters around town had called her “the Woman,” since she was everything a guy could possibly desire in one. Even my mom, the notorious Sasha Gold, hadn’t landed that many marks in her badger days. “Natalie served you guys last night at the tables.”

“Had you been there, we could have met a day sooner,” he remarked, as though he mourned the loss.

I’d been replaced by Coach Grift.

Nikolai frowned. “I hope we tipped your sister enough.”

“Plenty.” A family record for tips, in fact. And it's all gone into debt. Always the friggin debt. Which sent my attention back to the con. Time for greater elusiveness. “I better be going. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

He gripped my elbow with a warm, firm hand.

My back sprang straight as if I’d been shocked, and new feelings raced through my body. A surge of heat mingled with shivers? Before I turned back to him, I concealed my expression of surprise.

He didn’t disguise himself. His eyes had narrowed, his lips separating. “I never knew skin could feel so soft," he whispered, releasing his hold on me and gently using the back of his fingers to caress my bare arm. I looked in astonishment as my skin prickled in the aftermath of his caress. Cold-as-Ice Vice was feeling very, very hot. I stared up at him, as if I might discover the solution in his gaze.

His eyes truly were magnificent. This close, I could see his amber pupils were inundated with brighter specks; they made his eyes glitter gold.

I could get lost in them. If he were a grifter, he’d be a thrall, the sort of con artist whose s*x appeal was so great he or she could affect a mark’s behavior with only a glance.

He came in even closer, extending a hand to brush his knuckles over my jawline, then a cheekbone. “So incredibly beautiful, moy ángel.”

Was this millionaire about to kiss me? I mumbled, “You’re a player, aren’t you?”

Still massaging my cheek, he continued, “Give me your definition of ‘player.’”

“A guy who finds women interchangeable, and goes through a lot of them. He manipulates their minds." The only thing more undesirable than a manipulative individual is a manipulative person who is also inexperienced or clueless in the field they are trying to manipulate others in.

Nikolai dropped his hand to curl his fingertip beneath my chin. “There are two things you should know about me, Isabella.

One, I shall play games with you.”

Warmth invaded my body, settling between my thighs . I swallowed. “What’s the other thing, big guy?”

He palmed the back of my head, bringing me close. Yet then he stopped, as if enjoying that he was going to kiss me. “You will like my games.” He bent down and traced his warm, strong lips over the side of my neck.

My eyes slipped shut, all of my senses increasing. His smell had been appealing; now compelling. His body heat had been magnetic; now he felt hot as fire.

My thoughts sought to disperse, but I pushed for control. Potential mark. Keep your head. What’re you doing?

I detected his soft breaths on my lips. His lips caressed mine with such tenderness—almost . . . respect. He was enticing me.

And it was fantastic.

For all my s****l life, I’d yearned for the intense passion other people spoke about, wrote about, sung about. I’d loved s*x, but I’d easily lived without it for a year. Sometimes I thought I might never discover the key to unlock my passion.

When I spread my lips for him, he tilted his mouth and our tongues connected. My breath hitched at the touch, my neglected libido scorching to life. Could a single, lonely guy be my key?

With a sigh, he cupped my face and carefully twined his tongue with mine.

I shuddered with amazement, grabbing his huge shoulders, tasting his strength. My n*****s hardened against the cups of my strapless bra, and my thong felt moist.

Though anxiety slid through his muscles, he kept up his controlled seduction.

I had the idea he fought to be gentle with me; I didn’t want to be gentle. I silently pleaded, More . . .

But he kept up his slow-burn, furious pace.

More! My claws cut into his shoulders; as if I’d flicked a switch in him, savagery overtook his gentleness. With a groan against my lips, his hands fell on my ass, tugging me into him.

I gasped into our kiss—his c**k was massive! Was he transporting us? My back struck a wall.

He crushed his body into mine and moved his hips, grinding his erection.

I shivered with hunger, groaning for the thick length imprisoned between us. I became more wetter, my p***y craving for it. My head swam. I couldn’t get near enough to him. Engaging in a passionate kiss, I adjusted my hips to meet him, “Bel?”