A Gentleman in the Street (36 page)

She stared at the photo. She’d never seen her grandmother at this age, and as he pointed out each individual feature, the likeness became more apparent. Such a silly thing, but it calmed her soul to be able to put more distance between herself and her father.
I don’t even look like you.
“She always said it was a shame I inherited the shape of her legs.”

“I love your legs. They’re strong.” His fingers measured her calf. “There isn’t a force in the world that could knock you over.”

She cuddled closer to reward him for those fierce words.

“Is that man your grandfather?”

“No.”
I loved your grandfather, but he was a difficult man to simply be with.
Akira accepted the photo from Jacob and caressed the silver case.

“Ah. An old lover?”

“Maybe.”
It’s very…nice. When you’re with a person who is content to let you be. It’s the most peaceful thing in the world.

“It looks like someone she loved very much. Someone who loved her.”

“I hope so. Someone she could be with.”

His face was gravely serious when he tipped her chin up. “Am I that someone for you?”

She pressed a kiss in the warm hollow of his throat and curled her hand over Jacob’s chest, right above his heart. The muscle thudded softly against her palm. “Yes. I could… I could love you.”

He didn’t say anything, but the tightening of his arms around her told her she’d pleased him. Innate honesty forced her to continue speaking, even when she knew she might be better served by shutting up. “I’m not… I was taught love was a weakness. Something to be used against you. I may not be able to tell you I love you. Not often, at least. Not at first.”

He considered her words with his usual seriousness. “Can I tell you I love you? Maybe not today, right this minute. But eventually?”

Deep, endless hunger flashed inside her, warring with fear and trepidation. The hunger edged the fear out, like a glowing sun forcing darkness away. She nodded, mute.

His face softened, and he gave her a slow, solemn smile. “Good.” He squeezed her, sharing his solid strength. “You know, I’m not much for talking anyway. I’d rather you show me.”

kazzie

A Note From Alisha

Thank you so much for reading
A Gentleman in the Street
! I hope you enjoyed it.

• If you would like to know when my next book is available, please sign up for my new release e-mail list
  here,
  visit me at
  www.alisharai.com
  , or follow me on twitter
  @AlishaRai
  .
  

• Reviews help other readers find books. I appreciate all reviews, whether positive or negative.
  
• This novel stands alone, though Akira did make a brief (and dirty, of course) appearance in the novella
  Bet On Me
  (Book Three of the
  Bedroom Games Series
  ). Turn the page for an excerpt from Book One of that series,
  Play With Me
  , followed by an excerpt from
  Glutton for Pleasure
  , Book One of the Pleasure Series.
  

Play With Me

Chapter One

I want to keep you bound to my bed forever.
Black leather ties encircling those dainty wrists, those slender ankles. Stretched wide for me. You’d never be able to escape.

Inhale.

Even if I make a fortune some day, it won’t compare to how rich I feel every time you open your thighs for me.

Exhale.

I love you. Always.

“Ma’am?”

Tatiana Belikov snapped the manila folder in her hands shut, hiding the pile of old and tattered letters she’d made the mistake of skimming—though the words weren’t new to her—while waiting for the receptionist to finish her phone call. She was all too aware of the slight sheen of sweat on her upper lip. She stuffed the folder in her oversized bag as she rose to her feet, her trembling hands making the job more awkward. “Yes. Hi.”

The woman gave her a warm smile. Tatiana didn’t have a vast working knowledge of the hiring practices of rich and powerful men, but television had taught her the waiting area would be guarded by a sexy, slinky shark of a woman. Wyatt’s assistant looked like she should be playing bridge somewhere. “I’m so sorry about that. Now, what can I help you with?”

Your boss and I popped each other’s cherries years ago. Can you please tell him I’m here?
She cleared her throat. “I was hoping I could see Mr. Caine.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, I don’t.”

The other woman—Esme Schmidt, her desk tag read—turned away from her computer, her frown genuinely regretful. “I apologize, dear. But Mr. Caine doesn’t see anyone without an appointment. If you’d like to leave a message, I can see that he receives it.”

The waiting room wasn’t packed—only one other person was present, a frowning, shifty-eyed baby boomer clutching two briefcases bulging with documents. Still, Tatiana couldn’t imagine how much work went into running an operation of this size. Showing up with no notice wasn’t the best tactic, but alas, she hadn’t really thought about it until it was too late to call off this crazy venture.

“Can you please give him my name? I know he’ll see me.” She didn’t know that he would listen to her, or even speak with her for very long. But curiosity alone should get her a couple of minutes. A couple of minutes was all she needed.

Maybe not all she
wanted
. But all she needed.

When the older woman hesitated, Tatiana pushed, injecting equal amounts of charm and confidence into her plea. “We’re friends. He’ll be so disappointed if he knows I left without seeing him. Please.” She clutched the strap of her bag, the letters weighing it down. “Tatiana Belikov.”

The older woman pursed her lips. As she reached for the phone, Tatiana heard her mutter something that sounded like, “It’s your funeral.”

“What now, Esme?”

The low, annoyed voice came through the receiver, too deep and booming to be contained by a small piece of plastic. A small chill ran down her spine. It had been roughly a decade since she'd heard that voice, and it still managed to make her sit up and take notice.

He sounded harder. Tougher. And not happy.

He was about to get even more unhappy.

“There’s a young lady here to see you.”

“Is she on my schedule?”

“No, sir.”

“Then she doesn’t exist.”

Esme cast her a reproachful glance, and Tatiana winced, mouthing,
Sorry
. She was sorry. She also wasn't budging.

Esme continued. “She says to tell you her name is Tatiana Belikov.”

Tatiana didn’t know what she expected. A laugh. A guffaw. Or worst of all, a “Who?”

Instead, resounding silence greeted the announcement. Tatiana’s breath caught as she waited for…something. Anything.

A creak brought her gaze from the phone to the mahogany double doors leading to what was assuredly the lion’s den.

Back straight, head up.
Oh, but her hands. What to do with her stupid, restless hands? Worry urged her to link them together. The stirring of her girlish heart had her longing to twirl her hair.

Her pride took over. She clenched those hands into militant fists.

The door opened wider, revealing a man she barely knew, yet at the same time, knew all too well. He was larger now, a full-grown male instead of the gangly youth she'd known. He wore a solid black suit, harsh against his very white shirt. His tie was bright red, a splash of color that should have been garish but instead added a dash of charm and whimsy to his otherwise stark appearance. He wore the suit well—but then, was there anything he wouldn’t wear well? He still had the physique of the common laborer he’d been, not the executive he was.

Had he been any other man, she would have accused him of posing for her. But he’d never had much vanity about his body, using it as other people did a tool. He moved, placing his large hands on his hips and pushing back his suit jacket, as if to display the trimness of his waist and stomach.

Dear eyeballs, anytime you want to stop eating this guy up with a spoon, that would be good.
But it was so damn hard. The man had aged well, and she had never been immune to his appearance. As a bumbling, awkward freshman in high school, she’d drooled every time she’d looked at the hottest senior. Even when they’d broken up, she’d had to battle that tug of attraction.

He could have at least gotten a bald spot.
But, no, he had a full head of hair. He’d worn it long when they'd been lovers, as suited a young rebel. Now, the coal-dark strands were cut short. She tightened her fists until her nails cut into the skin of her palms, the better to resist the temptation to see if he still liked a woman running her fingers through that cool silk.

His eyes were as dark as his hair, framed by a fringe of lashes so thick he’d been teased into more than one fistfight over whether he wore eyeliner. Those eyes were trained on her, piercing through her thin armor, right into her soul.

“Tatiana Belikov.” His voice was emotionless, as if they were acquaintances meeting at a dinner party, not standing face-to-face for the first time since the finale of their tumultuous relationship.

She raised her chin. She might look delicate, but she was no pansy. “Wyatt.”

He cocked his head. “What a…surprise.”

“Mr. Caine? The young lady said you were friends. Do I need to call someone?”

Her boss’s reaction was disturbing Esme. Tatiana wondered if women frequently had to be bodily removed from Wyatt’s office.

“That won’t be necessary, Esme. I do know her.” His smile was a flash of white in his swarthy skin. “And yes. We’re old friends.”

She shivered, though she wasn’t sure why. The lush, climate-controlled office wasn’t cold. “I apologize for barging in like this so unexpectedly.” He didn’t speak, didn’t rush to reassure her that she wasn’t barging in. She wasn’t sure she expected him to. “I need to speak with you about an important matter.”

Wyatt’s only reaction was a raised black eyebrow. His expression was closed, remote, sardonic. Déjà vu. He’d worn this same face countless times as a teenager. Wyatt had perfected the careless-rebel role back then, which she had sworn, in her dreamy, girlish way, she could see beneath to his squishy, warm heart.

Not that she was fooling herself into thinking she could see anything now. A lot of time had passed, and they were both different people.

“How curious. Of course. Far be it from me to deny a lady.”

Was she the only one who noticed the emphasis on that last word? Wyatt glanced idly around the waiting area, and she followed his gaze to the other occupant in the room. The man sitting on the sofa made no secret of his avid interest in their exchange. “Esme, reschedule this gentleman's appointment to tomorrow.”

The man scowled, transferring his gaze to Wyatt. “What? No. I need to see you today!”

Wyatt gave him a cold look. “You'll reschedule to tomorrow.”

A pang of guilt made Tatiana turn around and peer at the man. “I really am sorry—”

“Well I don’t care if you’re sorry—”

“I think you’re forgetting,” Wyatt cut him off cleanly, with the precision of a surgeon wielding a blade, “who’s here begging a favor from whom, hmm? You want to help dull the memory of how you screwed me over last time we did business? You’ll reschedule. To tomorrow.”

The man opened his mouth, but something he saw in Wyatt’s face made him shut up. Paling, he shook his head, muttering as he fished out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead.

“Come into my office,” Wyatt said to her, his voice smoother, lower.

Will you walk into my parlour? said the Spider to the Fly.
She bit her lip. Nerves were making her belly jump.

At least, she hoped it was just nerves. A low-level buzz of caution around this particular shark was a good thing. It would keep her on her toes. Lust would be far more troublesome.

Damn it, Wyatt. If not a bald spot, maybe some chub. Really, is a paunch too much to ask for?

“Tatiana.”

Uttering her name should not make the fine hairs on her arm stand up and salute. It was the way he said it that was magic, all cool command and expectant.

Goddamn it. It wasn’t just nerves.

She resisted the urge to fan herself and took a step toward Wyatt. He shifted and held the door open, waiting for her to precede him.

She walked inside the office, unable to stop herself from adding a twitch of attitude to her ass. A glance over her shoulder proved it was wasted—he was closing the door, his back to her. Her lips compressed. Fine. She would give him some other opportunity to slaver over her still-pert body.

He wasn’t the only one who had aged well. And any minute now, she would stop sounding so freakin’ defensive.

To occupy herself, she glanced around the luxurious office. The cherry desk was huge and uncluttered, save for a sheaf of papers piled on the surface. The chair was plush black leather, and its price tag alone could pay her bills for a month. A wet bar graced one corner of the room; probably de rigueur for a man who owned a casino. The floor-to-ceiling windows that made up the fourth wall showcased a glorious view of Las Vegas.

The walls were a creamy off-white, and while a few tasteful paintings decorated them, there wasn’t a single picture of family or friends. Which made sense, since she knew his mother was dead, his father had barely been more than a sperm donor, and he’d had no other real family growing up. Her quick research of the low-key CEO of Quest Casino had turned up the news he had never married nor had children. According to Wikipedia, at least. A private detective she wasn’t.

“You have a nice office,” she said, in order to break the heavy silence. She turned to find him standing at the door, one hand on the wood as if he were barring others who might try to enter.

Or to keep her from leaving.

He dropped his hand. “Thank you.” Still expressionless.

“The whole place is nice.” Tatiana waved, to encompass the large building she stood in. She supposed, compared to the Mirage or Caesars, Quest was a small entity. However, what the hotel and casino lacked in size, it made up for in exclusivity and class. In the five years since it had been established, it had hosted politicians, heads of state, and millionaires—all of whom were guaranteed discretion and the opportunity to indulge their vices with no commoners about to carry tales. One article she’d read had written,
What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, but what happens at Quest…no, nothing ever happens at Quest.