An Obsession with Vengeance (Wanted Men Book 3) (3 page)

She stood, feeling her nerve endings tingle with a loathed anticipation and then downright buzz with excitement as she watched more than six and a half feet of pure male temptation climb from the driver’s side of the SUV and saunter her way. With everything going on in her life, she should not even be aware this man existed. Yet she was. So aware it was straight-up embarrassing.

Maksim Kirov. Her bane. Her bête noire. A man she couldn’t stand and at the same time—as any hot-blooded woman would—wanted to be all over. But she never would, because he was a freaking Russian mobster. Oh, and he was a man-whore from hell and proud of it.

He came to a smooth stop before her, his oversize tattooed body hidden by a soft-looking wool coat and another of those expensive suits he favored. His hair was dark, and cut in a Julius Caesar style that reminded her of Russell Crowe in
Gladiator
but sexier. Yes, sexier.

She looked up into that unforgettable face and tried not to be impressed. Chiseled, strong, and stunning. His silver gaze—
silver
, for God’s sake!—was staggering in its intensity.

“Hello, lover,” he greeted her as he always did in his deep rumble, his slight Russian accent rolling that
r
straight down her spine. It ended at her tailbone and seemed to jingle like a bell. “You ready to do this?”

That reverberation spread into Sydney’s every erogenous zone and refused to quiet. How many times had he gotten to her like this? Too many since he’d shown up at her club a few weeks ago. He’d sauntered in with an associate of his on a night that had been puttering along just like any other. After requesting to see her security footage, he’d made his interest in her clear, while nudging awake her previously sleeping libido. He’d returned too often since, becoming bothersome, but what could she do? Shoo him off? Ignore him? Tell him no? She’d tried. All of it.

And, sure, she had to admit he was attractive. Dark and alluring. Irresistible. Every rumor she’d heard through the grapevine about him had been dead-on. The man was spectacular.

But he was also a player of the highest order, she reminded herself—hating that she had to—and
that
she did not need. It was bad enough she’d brought a drug lord into her and Andrew’s lives with a decision based on emotion. She refused to add a career criminal to the equation based on something even worse—a physical attraction that would no doubt die as quickly as it had sprung to life. Besides, good looks and weak knees were one thing, but she needed some personality. Unless he was talking sex, this one had nothing to say—to her, anyway. Which was why she wished he’d give up. Wished he’d find someone else to bother with his come-ons and lemme-fuck-yous.

Because one thing was for certain: this Russian mobster would not be fucking her.

CHAPTER 2

Maksim Kirov waited to see if the same script he and his Aussie had been following lately would be adhered to. In the interim, he let out a very quiet sound of pleasure and took his fill.

Sydney Martin. Owner of Club Pant, another Manhattan nightclub a few blocks north of his own place. Five feet seven inches of icy attitude wrapped in a package so goddamn hot he’d yet to find it in himself to take the loss and walk away. Long silver-blonde hair reached her lower back. Tight body. Exotic features. Perfect.

Her lips parted and he came to attention to hear . . .

“No more ready than I was the last time you came sniffing around,” she said coolly.

A slow grin pulled at his lips at the familiar response. Had he mentioned the attitude? That accent of hers was foreplay. Couldn’t wait to hear it calling out his name during one hell of an orgasm. And it would. He was determined. More determined than he’d been about anything in a long time. He wanted this woman under him. So that’s what he’d get. Because he was spoiled that way.

“This will be very, very good.” He motioned between them with a lazy finger.

She put her hands behind her back, leaned on the door handle of her car, and said nothing. The position drew attention to her petite frame—petite to him, but then, everyone was petite to him. He was coming to know her well enough that he could say she hadn’t posed for the sole purpose of flaunting herself, but how could she not be aware of how tempting she’d just made herself look? A deliberate tease? He couldn’t say for sure. And how puzzling was that?

Tempting or not, he kept his eyes up, and that allowed him a view of her head tilting, her bow-shaped mouth pursing when he asked, “When are you going to give in and let me have my way with you?”

“Well, originally I thought never,” she returned without missing a beat. “But now that you’re forcing me to get to know you better, I’ve revised that to never
ever
.”

He wanted to ask her why but didn’t. Because he knew he’d get the same irritating answer she’d given him the dozen other times he’d asked.
None of your business.
Her favorite expression. His least favorite.

Bracing his legs, he crossed his arms and settled into a comfortable stance. Her gaze took a swift trip down his body. She wanted him. He knew it.

“Tell me something about yourself,” he invited, as though they’d just met. He needed her to volunteer some information. Wished she’d slip up. Going in blind like this just wasn’t working for him.

The first night he’d met her he’d been doing a favor for one of his best friends, Vincente Romani. Afterward, he’d gone home, settled into command central, and pulled up his favorite search engine. Feeling way too much anticipation, he’d typed in “Sydney Martin Australia” . . . and had sat there looking at a blank screen. Well, not blank because there were many women who went by the name, but no information had been found on the one he wanted. So he’d tried “S. Martin Australia” and looked for her image. And then “Syd Martin Australia.” “Sidney Martin Australia.” “Sidnee Mertan Australia.” “Sidnee Marton Australia.” And on and on it went. He’d typed in every possible combination of letters that sounded even remotely like Sydney fucking Martin who’d come from goddamned Australia. And had gotten nothing but one large fuck-you-you’re-not-getting-shit. Being somewhat of a computer geek—
cough
, hacker,
cough
—he had knowledge of sites and different avenues only certain underground government organizations used, so he should have easily found all there was to know about his Aussie.

He hadn’t. But instead of turning him off, hitting that dead end had added a mysterious flavor to the chase. Who was she? Where had she come from? What had she left behind? And why?

“I’m female,” she brought him back to the moment by saying in a bored voice. “Originally from Australia. I have blonde hair. I own a nightclub that I love running, bought from my former boss for mere pennies so he could stick it to his cheating wife.” She paused as he stored that little tidbit. “Shall I go on?” she questioned, flashing him a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Snooty, independent little thing. Stubborn, standoffish, and frustrating, he added to the list just because. Was that hunger in her eyes? Or just a trick of the light? And did she seem more uptight than usual?

“Did you have to do anything . . . unusual . . . before he signed it over to you?”

“Yes.”

Something sizzling and oh-so-dark slithered through him at the thought of her offering herself to the guy in order to get a good deal. “What?”

“When I arrived to sign the papers, he made me sit and have breakfast with him in his suite at the Ritz-Carlton because he was lonely. So there I sat, sneezing around my eggs because he had a cat and I’m allergic. He was actually a very nice man.”

Placated, Maksim heard a steady little thumping sound coming from behind her. As if she was tapping against the car. Was she nervous around him? “Where is he now?” he asked to keep the interaction going. He always got answers if he spoke about generic club stuff, but anything else was usually met with a simple “no.” Once he’d gotten a “hell, no.” So this was good.

“He passed away a few weeks ago. Another of your kind knew him quite well. Maybe you did, too. Cezar Fane?”

She dropped the name, and Maks found himself struggling not to let his surprise show. He remembered seeing Gheorghe Fane in her office the night they’d met—which just so happened to be days before he and every associate he knew attended a massive funeral.

“You and I met the same night Cezar’s son came to see me. Remember?” she said as though she were in his mind. “Gheorghe thought I’d want to know his father had passed.”

“Lucian Fane’s uncle sold you this club?”
Why the fuck hadn’t that information been on record . . . ?
He almost slapped himself. The info hadn’t been made public because they were talking about one of the most powerful organized crime families in the world. Numbered companies and aliases would be the only thing the city possessed on who had previously—and currently?—owned Club Pant, or anything in the Fane family’s portfolio.

Sydney shrugged as if that weren’t something. “I’ve heard of him but don’t know Lucian personally. I knew Cezar, and now, having only met him the once, Gheorghe.”

“Did you comfort Gheorghe in his time of need?”

She tipped her head back and looked up at the brightly lit windows on the top floor of her building. The position exposed the smooth column of her throat, distracting him from the sigh she let out. “I offered him my condolences. You know.” She brought her chin down and gave him a look usually reserved for moldy takeout. “Talking to you is like talking to a seventeen-year-old boy. You’re so immature.”

“Am I? Nothing but condolences?” he pressed. She might think he was being crass, and he could understand why. But it wasn’t her history alone he wanted—he was more interested in her history with an associate of his. In his world, one didn’t step on toes. One didn’t move in on an ex. One didn’t take another man’s woman. Because rather than a fist to the face for your gall, one was more likely to get a bullet in the groin.

“Not that it’s any of your business, Russia. But no. I didn’t offer Gheorghe Fane my body in an effort to make him feel better over his father’s death.”

Okay.
She was fair game. And why did he enjoy it so much when she called him Russia? He moved on, coming back to something that had struck him. “That’s good. Now, what did you mean, ‘another of my kind’?”

She shuffled, kicking her toe at something that had fossilized in the asphalt. “I know who you are.”

“Really, Australia?” He dropped his arms and drifted closer, knowing she didn’t have a fucking clue who he really was. “And who am I?”

Her attention flashed to his mouth and then away. “You and your friends are . . .” Her lips turned down, and she shrugged a shoulder. “I’m actually not sure what you call yourselves. Gangsters, mobsters, mafioso . . . ?”

“Try
businessmen
,” he whispered with an edge to his voice that she couldn’t miss.

She blinked those amazing eyes of hers up at him, looking as though she’d just thought of something. He watched with way too much interest as a slew of emotions flew across her flawless face, none of them staying long enough for him to address. But he hadn’t missed the three most prominent: fear, regret, and then a wide-eyed fuck-that. Now she was—infuriatingly—moving on, seemingly unfazed by the tone he’d used. A tone that normally had men twice her size taking a step back.

“Okay,” she agreed. “You’re businessmen that people have a healthy respect for. You get what you want when you want it, no matter who you have to go through to get it. Right?”

He couldn’t speak for his friends, but he supposed she had his public reputation nailed down. His hand came up, and he hooked his pinkie in a thick strand of her hair, watching it shimmer under the security lights as he drew his finger down its length. “If I am who you say, I suppose I should just take you. No matter how much you protest.”

He had the pleasure of watching her pink tongue come out to swipe nervously across her full lips, her eyes darting around the empty alley they stood in. His pleasure died when he saw the return of the fear that had made a brief appearance in her expression a second ago. She brought her arms from around her back and lazily cut one through the air, reclaiming that lock of spun silk. “Where would the fun be in that?”

Her bravado was admirable. But unnecessary. See? She didn’t know him at all.

“Relax, beauty,” he said soothingly. “I don’t want it if it isn’t freely given.”

Her mouth twisted. “And I’m sure it is more often than it’s not.” Her brow puckering let him know she hadn’t meant to share that observation, and he had to hide a grin.

“You’d know what that’s like.”

“The difference is, I don’t want it.”

“Why is that?” Curiosity was annoying.

“Just because.”

So was she.

“Do you often stalk your women like this?” she asked casually.

“Hmm. Now we’re getting somewhere.” He bent, coming in as close as he dared. Damn she was tiny. “You’re coming to see yourself as my woman.”

“You wish.” She half laughed in a soft burst. It was really more of a scoff, but whatever. Her white teeth glittered through a smile that nailed him right behind his zipper. And, yes, he did wish. “You didn’t answer my question. Do you stalk regularly? And does this approach normally work for you?”

He refused to tell her the truth: that he’d never had to work so hard before. “I’m not stalking you; I’ve befriended you. There’s a difference. If I was stalking you, you’d never know it.” He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring wink. “Yet another thing we can discuss over drinks, you and I.” He withdrew his phone from the inside pocket of his coat and opened his contacts. “I understand it’s getting late and you’ll be opening soon, so why not give me your private number and I’ll call you tomorrow. We can set something up. Full name and spelling?” He sounded like a fucking cop.

He looked up when nothing was forthcoming and sighed at the obstinate tilt of her chin. The sparkle dancing in her eyes reassured him that she was more entertained than frightened. Ah well, it had been worth a try.

He pocketed his phone. “What do you have against giving me an hour for a sit-down?”

She ignored his question, as she did a lot. “I really underestimated your tenacity. I thought you’d be bored of this long before now. Why haven’t you moved on? Found someone more willing to play this game with you?”

“Because you’re a challenge, and I’m not going to leave your ass alone until I’ve had it.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she sputtered.

They’d exchanged that same banter time and again. She would ask why he was still showing up at her club, tempting her to sleep with him. He would tell her he was used to getting his way and wasn’t going to quit until she gave in. A different set of words each time, same idea.

He knew women, and he knew she was attracted to him. So why wouldn’t she act on that attraction? Give in to it?

He didn’t fucking know. But he was determined to . . .

His focus sharpened when he noticed she was biting on the corner of her lip, now off in her own head. “What’s going on with you tonight? You’re not usually so distracted.” She gave him a sharp look before her gaze skipped away, landing nowhere in particular. His instincts pinged, and he watched closely as he posed his next question. “You in some kind of trouble?”

The slight flare of her eyes, the flicker of something that looked a lot like panic in their depths, her chest rising in a sharp little burst that he’d have missed if he wasn’t looking for it, all told him he’d struck gold. She
was
in trouble. With who? Over what?

“Talk to me,” he said seriously, thoughts of fucking taking a backseat to how pale her skin now looked.

Her indignant snort was missing its usual disparaging flavor. “We
are
talking.”

“Cut the shit, Sydney. Are you afraid of something? Is someone bothering you?”

“
You’re
asking me that?”

“I may be chirping around your ass, but I’m not a threat to you. Is someone else?”

She didn’t hesitate in her answer, but it was too pat for him to accept. “No. I’m perfect. Thanks for the chat, Russia.” She pushed away from her vehicle and moved around him to start for the back door of her club. “Mine isn’t the only club opening soon. You should already be at yours, rather than standing around out here trying to score like some horny teenager.”

He let her get in a couple of steps before drawling, “If we were teenagers, your head wouldn’t be full of whatever is giving you so much trouble, and we’d have fucked by now.”

She whirled around, blonde hair flying.
“Shhh,”
she said furiously, looking around, as though expecting a kindergarten class to come wandering out from behind the Dumpster. “Do you not have a filter?”

“No,” he answered honestly, dropping his raging curiosity over her mood. For now. “Give in to me. I’m asking for one hour to talk to you without the put-downs and evasions.”