Tonight’s party is therefore a multipurpose event. Mostly, I am negotiating to get what I want. When you are a billionaire, other people are either chump change or they want a piece of you. Lily has never wanted anything to do with me. When I discovered my stepbrother had been fucking her and had taken her to a club where he had owed money, I recognized that I had an in with the Petrovs. I am a good businessman—I knew Ivan Petrov would reward the man who could get his pretty little princess out of trouble. I set my stepbrother and Lily up, and then I fixed the problem for Ivan. I married her, and then I took the fall for the assault in the club. I paid Ivan’s price.
My wife knows nothing about set-ups, prices, or falls. She married me and then she proceeded to ignore me for the next six years. I did not merit so much as a card or roses on our anniversary. Still, her father gifted me with a few choices pieces of Miami real estate as a wedding present. His properties were the launch point for my billions—before our wedding, I’d had the ideas but not the capital. Afterward, the sky was the fucking limit, even if my alliance with Ivan Petrov remained a secret one. I am his hidden weapon, his concealed carry, and his last line of personal defense. The other mob families do not know about our ties, and we both prefer it that way.
There is one more thing that Ivan Petrov himself does not know. I wanted more than just his property—I wanted Lily. At sixteen, she was too young for me. Now, she is older. So am I, but that means I can protect her better. I am richer and more powerful. She will be safe on my watch.
Still, watching on camera as Lily works her way across the dance floor, I wonder if I should have come for her sooner. Maybe twenty-one was not too young, or even twenty. Eighteen. She is fucking gorgeous, a feminine version of a Venus flytrap sucking down boy mosquitos as if they were candy. Tits, ass, and legs—Lily’s petite package is gorgeous, but that is not the best part. She looks up at the security camera, although I suspect she is unaware of its presence. For a Russian mob princess, Lily is strangely innocent—or maybe the rest of us are just too fucking deviant. She has cut her hair since our spectacularly ill-fated wedding day, the honey-blond length now falling in long layers around her face instead of the straight, slick ponytail I have spent the past six years dreaming of fisting. Full pink lips flash a reserved greeting at someone in the crowd, her brown eyes frowning slightly. She usually avoids the Russian mob families; it is possible she cannot put names to all the faces. Her own face is heart-shaped and her nose has the tiniest tip at the end as if her whole face wants to smile. Lily Petrov is one of the happy people. She is short and curvy, and the minute she steps into the sun, her skin turns the color of gold.
Honestly? Her pretty veneer is simply one more weapon in a well-loaded arsenal. She can think circles around most of tonight’s party guests. It is one more reason for me to stay here in security’s command central, watching her on the live feed rather than engaging her. Of course, I am also an adrenaline junkie who thinks taking a fifty-foot yacht through the edge of a hurricane is the best way to spend a Friday night, so I am unlikely to leave her alone.
I keep an eye on her for the next few minutes while I plan my move. She is really not supposed to be here. This is my club, my territory, my house. Did I mention that I am now the head of the Miami branch of the Bratva? Just think of us as the American cousins of the most powerful Russian Mafia family in Moscow. And while I recently took us mostly legitimate, you do not want to piss us off. I make sure Lily keeps on walking past the smaller players currently manning the drug pipeline that fuel the Miami club scene. She does not need their brand of trouble. Those stupid bastards had better keep their drugs in their pockets and their dicks in their pants because delivering a beatdown would put my developing plans for the night on ice.
Fortunately, when idiot number one offers her a little narcotic something-something, she laughs and shakes her head, sending honey-colored hair dancing across her shoulders. She even manages to look both mortified and slightly offended as if she cannot believe anyone would offer her drugs. Lily Petrov does not frequent the Miami club scene, but she could totally rule it if she wanted.
She glows with happiness and pleasure. When a passing waiter offers her a tray of drinks, she contemplates the selection for a long minute, clearly undecided about which to choose. If it were me, I would hand her the whole goddamned tray. Eventually she picks the frozen glass, mouthing a thank-you at the server. I definitely would not have pegged her for a whiskey-sour gal. She strikes me as more of the fruity daiquiri type, the kind with a little pastel umbrella and a cherry.
I need to not think about tongues and cherry stems.
Too late. My dick tents the front of my very expensive tuxedo pants, making its preference for the evening’s entertainment clear. Kiss the girl. Lick the icy froth off her upper lip, because my unexpected party guest is downright uninhibited in her enjoyment of her drink. I promptly imagine that white cream is my jizz and I have just come all over her face, her throat, her tits. Painted her until she is filthy—and mine.
Lily Petrov is not my type. I remind myself of this. She is a fresh-faced twenty-two, and she looks as if life has not shit on her ever, although I know the truth. She is strong. She has had to be. Men turn to follow her with their gazes as she crosses the dance floor, her hips rocking left-right-left thanks to her ridiculously high heels. My kind of woman is older. She knows the score, the rules to the game, and she lives to play.
Or my kind used to be.
That is right. I am at the end of a six-year sexual drought. I have not had sex since the day Lily Petrov’s father suggested I marry her to cover up my stepbrother’s sins and then offered to compensate me well if I took the fall for the club assaults as well. I took his daughter, his real estate, and his deal. When I say she is not my type and she has no place here? That is wishful thinking, ladies and gentlemen.
I may not have talked to my wife since we faced off across a courtroom, but she owns every inch of this Russian’s ass.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Anne Marsh is a NYT and USA Today bestselling author of contemporary and paranormal romance. She has published over thirty novels and novellas. Ann is also part of the NYT and USAT bestselling authors collective behind the SEALs of Summer military anthologies, and has hit the USA Today bestseller list individually with both her paranormal and her military smoke jumper books. She lives in Northern California with her husband, two kids and four cats.
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MORE BY ANN MARSH
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Copyright © 2016 Anne Marsh
All rights reserved.
www.anne-marsh.com
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locations or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system, with the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
Formatting and ebook design by Geek Girl Author Services.
Contents
Still Her SEAL
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Meet Xander!
About the Author
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More by Anne Marsh