“His deep dark secrets? Those are the kind I keep best.”
“So you won’t tell me what he’s doing in Miami?”
If I had to guess, Maksimilian Sevastyan was buying up as much of the city as possible. From what I could glean, Miami was the closest ultra-deep port to the Panama Canal, which meant tons of new shipping traffic for the city—traffic that would demand warehouses, infrastructure, and rail spurs.
Yet I told Ivanna, “He’s here to work on his tan?”
“I see,” she said in a knowing tone. “Chin up. Now that you have a phone, you can call others. Maybe another friend could do more than smuggle in contraband?”
“You’re right. I’ll burn up the wires, dialing everyone I can count on. . . .”
After we’d hung up, I threw my arm over my face, tempted to fling the phone across the room.
I was still friendless. Still trapped in this belt. Trapped with a man who looked forward to the day when he could discard me. I was about to scream with combined frustration when I shot upright, remembering Mrs. Abernathy’s threatening message. Mierda! If she called INS . . .
I dialed the woman up. “Hi, Mrs. Abernathy, it’s Cat. I’m confirming for the thirty-first. Sí, señora. I’ll be there at nine a.m. sharp. Gracias.” My jaw dropped when she started a lecture about work ethics.
Work ethics. From someone who didn’t have a job.
I’d just hung up and hidden the phone in the guest room closet when I heard Sevastyan return.
Already? The sun was still high in the sky. I smiled when he bellowed, “Fucking come to me, witch.”
CHAPTER 20
Knowing how much it would piss him off, I’d added a sixth slash to Sevastyan’s mirror this morning.
Not long after, he found me in the pool, doing topless laps to music as per my usual. As per his usual, he was dressed to the nines. His tailored dark blue suit lovingly fit his broad shoulders and lean hips. His sunglasses made his hotness catapult off the charts.
He always looked flawless—except on those occasions when I could muss his hair. He picked up the remote, turning down my tunes.
“You and your clothes, Ruso. How much did that suit cost?”
“In U.S. dollars? Ninety or so.”
I gaped. “Thousand?”
“A Dormeuil Vanquish suit doesn’t come cheap.” He jerked his chin at me and said, “I always pay for quality.”
Thanks for the reminder. He was as hot and cold as ever, but his overall mood deteriorated with each day I remained here.
So why hadn’t he kicked me out of his tower? Though I was thinking more clearly today—he’d decided I could use a night’s uninterrupted sleep without my belt—I couldn’t figure him out.
And when exactly had the belt become my belt?
“I’m leaving for the morning, then holding meetings here from three on. You’ll need to stay out of the common areas.”
“Why? You don’t want your associates to see your prisoner walking around braless in your T-shirt?”
“I don’t need to give you a reason why. This is what I want from you.” So says the king.
“If you have to hide me, then why don’t you just send me packing?”
“You’ll remain with me until I’m done with you.”
Ooh, that burned me up! I wanted to slap him. At times like this I actually missed my shitty existence. Though I felt safe and had spare time, and had eaten so much lobster I was nearly sick of it, I did yearn for things.
Like having an occupation and running. I even missed attending class. “Oh, I see. Poor Sevastyan is still wanting this ass.” I gave a theatrical sigh. “I suppose if I’m going to be your quote-unquote prisoner for another day, then I’ll need things. I know you like to keep me barefoot and not-pregnant, but my uniform is getting old.”
“Give me your address, and I’ll send someone to fetch whatever you need.”
“I can’t give you that kind of information. You know why, chulo? Because I do fear a besotted client, and we both know that you want me more than I want you.”
His shoulders tensed up. All arrogance, he said, “Then it’s fortunate that I don’t give a fuck if you want me or not. Don’t test my patience. This week I’ll have little enough of it.”
I’d hit a chink in his armor! “Speaking of this week. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve.”
“Do not remind me.” Arctic blast. Somebody doesn’t like Christmas? “Your partner will have to miss your smiles for the holiday. Never forget, Cat, you’re here for my use—at my disposal.”
Spanish left my lips, insulting him and all his ancestors. Yet then I grinned evilly, planning to shove seven figures’ worth of his suits into the hot tub. To begin with.
He did a double take at my expression, then stormed off, barking something to Vasili on his way out. Probably: “Watch her.”
I stewed for another thirty minutes, deciding how else to screw with Sevastyan.
In the shower, I lit on an idea. I couldn’t dial out on the hotel phone, but I could dial down.
I dressed in one of his T-shirts for the last time, then called the concierge. “I’m Maksimilian Sevastyan’s girlfriend,” I told him. “And I’m going to need some things brought up to the penthouse and billed to the room.”
“Of course. My name is Alonzo, and I’d be happy to be of service.”
Muy bien. “Do you have a pen and paper?”
The man didn’t miss a beat when I ordered bathing suits, cover-ups, lingerie, slip-on beach sandals, dresses, Louboutins, makeup, and my favorite brands of toiletries. I ordered multiple pairs of running shoes, athletic boy-shorts, and sports bras.