You Don't Own Me: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (The Russian Don Book 1) (24 page)

That evening I listen to music and go to bed early, but I am too excited about my trip with Shane to sleep.

Finally, just when I have fallen asleep, I am awakened by the sound of a key in my door. I freeze with fear. Then I hear the familiar sound of Lenny’s footsteps. He comes into the bedroom and silently walks over to the bed. He stands over my prone body and watches me. I keep my breathing even and deep, and pray that he will not wake me up.

To my relief, after a few minutes he quietly slips out of the flat.

After I hear the door shut, I sit up then go over to the window. From the darkness of my window, I watch him walk to his car. The driver opens the back door and Lenny gets into it. Feeling unnerved, I return to bed. It has been a long time since he did that. He used to do that a lot when he first found me, when I was almost mad with grief and horror. I wonder why he did that today.

Does he on some level sense that another man has strayed into his territory?

SNOW

S
hane comes to collect me at 9.00 p.m. because that is when Lenny’s plane takes off and there will be no more calls from him after that. A man in a peaked cap opens the back door of a blue Mercedes and I slide in. Shane introduces him as the driver of the family’s company car.

‘Mostly only my brothers use this car. I can get anywhere faster on my bike,’ he says.

‘We’re not going to Heathrow Airport?’ I ask when I notice the car going on a different route.

‘No, we’re flying out of Luton,’ Shane says.

‘Oh,’ I say, and settle back against the plush seat while Shane gives the man instructions to bring his car to the airport on Sunday. I don’t listen. A ball of anxiety sits at the base of my stomach. I feel as if I am cheating on Lenny, even though I don’t love Lenny and he cheats on me all the time, and anyway, I am not going to do anything with Shane. Shane and I are friends, and we are just going to see the fireflies.

At the airport I am in for a shock. We are walking toward a private plane!

‘Wow! Whose plane is that?’ I ask, astonished.

‘My brother bought it about two years ago for the family’s use.’

‘Is he the ex-gangster?’

‘Yeah. Jake was a gangster, but don’t judge him too harshly. He had no choice. He did it for us. It was a great sacrifice for a man who wanted to be a vet.’

‘You love him very much, don’t you?’

‘We’re blood. I’d give my life for him.’

And his eyes shine with sincerity.

Then the pilot is introducing himself to me and we are walking up the steps into the jet. It is another world. The inside of it is beautiful, with heavy, wooden doors, red, luxurious carpets, and huge cream seats facing each other with tables in between. There are fresh flowers everywhere and it smells of perfume. Farther along, closer to the cockpit, there are two single beds with furry slippers tucked at one end. The table we are invited to occupy has a white tablecloth spread over it and is set as if in a fancy restaurant.

We sit and the smiling air stewardess pops open a bottle of champagne.

I can’t help being wide-eyed with wonder. ‘Oh my God, how amazing,’ I gasp. ‘This is exactly what I imagined it must be like to be a film star.’

He laughs softly, his handsome face indulgent, and we clink glasses then drink.

Fruit and tiny little canapés are served on a mirrored platter.

It takes us an hour and forty minutes to arrive in Cannes, a town so exclusive that there is no commercial airport and only private jets are authorized to land. There are no queues, Immigration and Passport Control, or baggage to worry about. Instead, our passports are checked by two policemen, and then we step onto the runway.

‘Welcome to France,’ Shane says.

I marvel at how easy and smooth travel is for the rich. ‘I can’t believe we’re actually in another country.’

‘Come on. We’ve got dinner reservations,’ he says, and leads me to a waiting car.

Full of excitement, I look around me as the palm-tree-lined boulevards swish by as we get into the town. I gaze in awe at all the beautiful old buildings. In twenty minutes I am ushered into one of Cannes’ famous seafront restaurants, Le Palais Oriental. It is brightly decorated with blue seats, white tables, and mirrors on the ceilings.

The place is in full swing, heaving with belly dancers and huge groups of noisy party-goers. We are greeted by a friendly Moroccan waiter who shows us to our table. The tables are low, and Shane has to sit with his knees spread far apart. He catches my grin and acknowledges the funny side. I love that he is able to laugh at himself. There is something so endearing about a man like that. My father couldn’t. My brother will never be able to, and Lenny will tear your head off before he’d even contemplate doing such a thing.

Shane and I order tagine of lamb with prunes and couscous, which our cheeky waiter claims is terrific because it is cooked on the bosoms of angels.

We drink mint tea and watch the dazzlingly graceful belly dancers as they advance, retreat as they snake their arms sinuously in the air, and shimmy their hips so hard and fast their luxurious costumes swim about their feet. I feel an instant affinity with them—the colorful costumes, the sun-drenched skin, and the bells on their bra tops remind me of the beautiful Indian dancers of my childhood. 

Like those Indian dancers, they twist their bodies into shapes that express joy, laughter, sadness, grace, lust. This story is one of entrapment and beauty. One woman wears a veil and over it her dusky black eyes flash enticingly. Not only her body, but her eyes speak.

I look around me and there are different reactions to them. To some, these women are cheap meat, but there are others who see what I do. All dancers are dreamers. There is no such thing as a sinful dancer.

‘I’ve never seen a belly dance in the flesh,’ I tell Shane.

‘Do you like it?’ he asks.

‘It’s simply beautiful,’ I say, watching a woman in a blue costume. Her personality and her sensuality flow through the timeless moves her body makes.

‘I agree.’

I turn to look at Shane. He is watching me. ‘The one in the blue costume is so seductive.’

‘Yes, she’s so seductive,’ he says softly, but he does not turn to look at her.

When the lamb comes, it is succulent, and the couscous could indeed have been cooked on the bosom of an angel. We eat our food and drink our wine, and slowly the beat of the Arabic music makes me tingle, and my body moves in tune with it.

‘Do you want to dance?’

I shake my head. ‘Perhaps I could dance under a moonless sky, or if I was on my own and no one could see me.’

‘Great: Moonless Sky is my chosen Red Indian name,’ he says cheekily.

‘Forget it,’ I say.

‘Never say never.’

We leave the restaurant late, our bellies full and the scent of adventure beckoning us as we drive to Shane’s chateau. In thirty minutes we arrive at a set of arched black iron gates. We drive up a road for a few minutes in total darkness and then, suddenly, we have reached our destination.

Saumur.

My mouth drops open with astonishment. This is no farmhouse or dilapidated chateau! How is it possible that Shane could own something so magnificent? Built from pink stone and trimmed in white, it rises from the ground in a truly imposing and majestic structure.

‘Wow,’ I exclaim opening the car door. ‘But this is a palace!’

‘How astute of you. It used to belong to an Iraqi prince, so it’s architecturally more royal palace than chateau.’

The gravel crunches under my feet as we walk up to the chateau. He unlocks the tall door and switches on the light and it is breathtaking. I look around in awe. My father was very rich once, but, even then, our mansion house was nothing like this. I have to seriously re-evaluate Shane’s financial worth. And to think I had been expecting a ruined chateau or a farmhouse! God, it never crossed my mind that he could afford such extraordinary splendor. This pile must be worth millions and millions of pounds.

‘All this belongs to you?’

‘Yes,’ he says staring curiously at me.

‘You’re so young. How could you be so rich?’

‘I have my brother to thank. He started us off early. He got us into the property market, investing in Internet start-ups, bought us all citizenships in Monaco, and put us into every tax saving scheme available.’

I look around in wonder. ‘It’s absolutely stunning, Shane. You’re so lucky.’

‘Come, I’ll show you the best part of the house.’ He winks at me. ‘Just in case you want a midnight swim.’

Stunned by the grandeur of the place, I follow him through the rooms with their high ceilings and the lovely marble floors. In the main salon there are stupendous art deco chandeliers and superb antiques. He leads me toward the pool, which has been uniquely situated in the center of the property.

I gasp when we reach it.

It is like suddenly finding yourself in a different world—the sumptuous, luxurious, precious, lost world of an Oriental potentate. Lit by softly glowing lamps, it must be seen to be believed. Massive and round, it is surrounded by tall double Corinthian marble columns that form a veranda around the pool. The stone columns are slightly submerged, giving the illusion that they are rising from the water.

The roof is covered in wisteria, throwing the reflection of the columns and dripping plants into the still water. There are white orchids growing in large bronze pots and loungers with cream cushions.

Made speechless by the unrivaled luxury and beauty, I walk toward the edge of the pool. There are rose petals floating in the water.

I hear him come up behind me. I turn around and look up at him. ‘Wow,’ I whisper.

His eyes are hidden by shadows. There is a slight tension in his body. ‘Feel like a midnight swim?’

I am suddenly wary. ‘I didn’t bring a swimsuit.’

‘There are swimsuits in the changing room, I believe,’ he counters.

‘I didn’t come here to sleep with you,’ I say, and my words hang between us. Both of us know that’s a lie.

‘Pity. Still, I’m only inviting you for a swim.’

I bite my lower lip. ‘OK, let’s swim.’

In the changing rooms, I find some plain black bikinis. I get into one and, after slipping on a toweling robe, nervously go back out to the pool. The air is warm and scented with the smell of the countryside. His back is to me and he is naked, but for a pair of briefs. He turns slightly when he hears my approach, and smiles.

And he takes my breath away—he’s the sexiest, most delicious thing I’ve
ever
seen. I gape at him like a silly teenager with a crush. The air changes between us. I feel goosebumps scatter quickly on my skin like millions of insect legs. A shiver goes through me, and between my legs a strange throbbing begins.

I breathe in deeply. What the hell am I doing?

I force my eyes away from him. If I’m planning to sleep with him, I should have drunk more alcohol at the restaurant.

‘Could I … er … have a drink?’

He turns fully then. Tattoos. Muscles. Ripped body. And a beast of a cock, barely held in check by his swimming trunks. All as if carved from glowing marble. There is no fear or shame in his face. He is the most self-assured, beautiful thing I have ever seen. Powerful male sexuality radiates from every pore of his impressive form. My mouth feels dry and my body does something it has never done before.

It aches for him.

SHANE

S
he stands in the glow of the lamps with absolutely no idea of just how fucking beautiful she is. She looks like she’s made of porcelain, or fairy dust. I want to go up to her, strip her naked, and ravish her right there on the cold tiles, but I can see that she is so nervous, her knuckles show white where she is hanging on so tightly to the edges of her robe’s front.

‘Sure, you can have a drink. What do you want?’ I say, ignoring my raging hard-on, and sauntering over to the concealed bar to the left of me. She trails behind.

‘Vodka and orange juice,’ she says.

I pick up a bottle of Grey Goose and a tall glass. ‘Say when,’ I tell her, and begin to pour.

I am nearly halfway up the glass and she is still staring at it. I carry on pouring, my eyes on her face.

‘When,’ she says.

I stop pouring and put the bottle on the bar. She lifts her eyes to mine. What kind of strange, sexy creature have I got standing in front of me? No woman has captivated my interest like she has.

‘You can fill it to the top with orange juice now,’ she says.

I don’t move. ‘You’ll drown if you drink this much alcohol before you get into the water,’ I say softly.

‘Oh! I guess I should have asked you to stop pouring earlier.’

‘What’s the matter, Snow?’

‘Nothing’s the matter.’ She bites her lower lip. It is sweet, glossy, and plush. A whore’s mouth in an angel’s face. I picture her lips on my abdomen and going lower still. My cock hammers and heat churns in my balls. Fuck, my dick is begging me to throw her against the nearest wall.

‘Is this what you have to do before you let Lenny touch you?’

Her eyes fly open, and she takes a step back from me as if I have struck her. ‘You have no right. You know nothing. Do you hear me? Nothing!’ she cries and then she begins to run.

My reflexes are fast, propelled by the hellfire of lust burning in my blood. I catch her easily and spin her around to face me. She gasps, sharp and sudden, and looks up at me with startled, wide eyes. Her robe is gaping open, and I can see the soft curve of her breasts as they rise and fall with her agitation. Hell! I want to fuck her senseless. I can feel myself pulsing.

‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that,’ I apologize. My voice is tight with frustration.

‘No, I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I overreacted. I’m just nervous. You’re the only friend I have. I don’t want to fight with you.’ Her voice is wobbly.

I let go of her forearms and flash her a good imitation of a grin. ‘So, let’s not fight then. How about a swim?’ I say, and, turning away from her, dive cleanly into the pool. With slow strokes I swim away from her. I’d need to do fifty laps to burn off this sexual frustration.

When I reach the other end, I turn back to look at her, and she is sitting at the edge with her legs moving languidly back and forth in the water. In these surroundings she is like a fantasy figure, a figment of my imagination. I experience a strange sense of possession. The urge to mate with her is primal, strong and rabid. If I was an animal, my fur would be bristling, my tail out and wagging stiffly, and my ears erect.

The drive to mount a woman, possess her and claim her as mine is an unfamiliar one. Sure, I could write a whole fucking encyclopedia about the impulse to mount a woman, but to possess and claim her? I exhale the breath I am holding and, swimming back to her, grab her feet. They are small and soft.

She giggles. ‘That’s ticklish.’

‘Are you coming in, Miss Dilshaw?’

She doesn’t stand and take off her robe the way any other woman with a body as dazzling as hers would have. Instead, she slips it off her shoulders awkwardly while still sitting, and pushes it off her hips and thighs just before she slides into the water. I catch her in my arms.

Her body is narrow and slippery. She gazes up at me, her lips slightly parted, and her eyes so dilated they are almost black. And it’s clear I’m not the only one who fucking wants it bad. She wants it too.

‘You can let go of me now,’ she whispers.

‘Give me one good reason I should.’

‘Because I want you to,’ she says.

‘Liar,’ I counter softly. ‘Here’s what I think you want. I think you’re aching for the taste of my cock.’

‘Mighty sure of yourself, aren’t you?’ she scoffs, although bright red is crawling up her neck and into her cheeks.

‘Shall we put it to a test?’

She looks alarmed. ‘What do you mean?’

I move my head closer and she jerks back.

‘What’s the matter? Don’t trust yourself to resist even a little kiss?’ I taunt.

‘I trust myself,’ she says, and, holding her chin high, closes her eyes like a schoolgirl expecting her first kiss. This is unfamiliar territory! It’s been a long, long time since any woman behaved in such a virginal way. If I wasn’t bursting out of my trunks to get to her, I would have found it funny.

I pull her toward me, bend my head and touch my lips lightly to hers. Her reaction is explosive. She moans, her hands snake around my neck to twine in my hair, and she practically melts into me. The water laps around us as her mouth opens and her nipples are like little pebbles burning against my chest.

I kiss her full and hard, my tongue pushing into the warm softness of her mouth. And there is not a damn thing tentative about the way she sucks on my tongue. She looks like a little spring flower, but she kisses with the kind of wild, reckless passion that blows my mind. She does it with the kind of desperation of someone starving.

I wrap my hands around her waist and push her upwards. Water cascades down her beautiful body, as I lift her onto the edge of the pool and place her firmly on her butt. I haul myself out. Getting on my haunches, I untie her bikini top. It falls away easily.

‘Shane,’ she whispers, my name catching in her throat.

Her breasts are small and perfectly formed, the areolae, shy rose buds. She gazes up at me, her eyes enormous, the eyelashes wet, and her delicious mouth swollen and red. My lips brush the side of her neck and she leans her head to the side and offers me her throat. It is a call to mate as much as it is when a female wolf lifts her rear and exposes her vulva to tell her alpha that she is in heat. My tongue trails down the silky skin. I’ve done this a thousand times before, but this time my movements are jerky with urgency.

I lay her on the cool tiles and wrap my lips around her nipple. She groans and closes her eyes. My hand slides down her body and moves toward her bikini bottom. I hook my fingers into it and suddenly she starts struggling under me. I lift my head in surprise.

Her hands move to cover her breasts.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she says.

I feel a surge of searing temper. This is fucking bullshit. I’m too old to play these cock-tease games. I grab her wrists and pull them apart and hold them high over her head so her breasts are exposed to me. She does nothing to stop me. Then I look deep into her frightened and excited eyes.

‘Well, I’m fucking not,’ I grate. I don’t hide the feral hunger in my eyes as I let my gaze roam her whole body, lingering lustfully on her breast, as if I own it all. And in my mind I do. She will be mine if it’s the fucking last thing I do. ‘I will have you, Snow Dilshaw. Fucking count on it. Not tonight, but you will be mine. And you know it too. You just like dragging things out. But you’re wetter than you’ve ever been, aren’t you?’

She says nothing, just stares up at me.

So, I slip my fingers in that last scrap of cloth between her and me, and brush my fingers between the soft lips. They are fucking soaking. I smile. I take my fingers out and suck them. Her eyes widen with surprise.

What is it about her? She is like no other woman I have been with. Even at a time like this, I can’t be angry with her. All I want to do is wrap her in my arms and tell her it’s going to be all right.

I stand and pull her to her feet. I pick up her discarded robe and tie it around her waist. And the strangest thing happens to me. I had a raging hard-on and yet at that moment I could have been belting little Liliana into her coat. I feel only a fierce sense of protectiveness toward her. Anybody touches her or tries to hurt a single hair on her head and I’ll break their fucking backs.

The day will come when
I
will yank her hair and she won’t be afraid of what comes next. She will just call my name, and tighten her muscles around my cock as I thrust it deep inside her. She’s mine. She just doesn’t know it yet.

‘Come on, I’ll show you to your room,’ I say.

I need to put some space between us. I don’t completely trust myself with her. I need to be level headed.

Because this one’s a keeper.