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With their eyes on me, I tip my glass to my lips, drain it, and stand up to the sound of their cheering.
Movingthrough the club is like trying to wade through sand. The numerous bodies bounce me back and forth, not noticing me, or not caring. Sucking in stale air, I push toward the first opening I spot. It’s a gap near the service door and bathroom. Men in stained white wifebeaters run in and out with new trays of glasses to stock the bar, avoiding the long line waiting to get into the stalls.
Standing on tiptoe, I put my hands up to my face, squinting through the strobe lights that are determined to leave me disoriented. Every face is the same reddish shade, so I can’t pick apart features or clothing.It’s impossible. I’ll never find Mr. Sex-on-Legs in this madness.
“Hi,” I wave at the bartender. “Who can I speak to about table services?”
A crisp, familiar voice suddenly rises behind me. “Was one bucket not enough?”
I don’thaveto look to confirm, but I’m already turning. Mr. Sex-on-Legs is standing just a foot away. He’s dressed in an expensive-looking tan jacket over a blue shirt, the sleeves rolled up to expose his muscular forearms. If possible, he’smoreattractive than I remember.
His eyes fall on me, and I swallow as I stand up straighter.
“Fancy seeing you here, Kitty Cat.”
Ugh!Somehow, a stupid-sounding nickname likethatmanages tosound sexy coming from his perfect lips.
Before I can say anything, he raises two fingers to get the attention of the bartender.
“Another two buckets for the bachelorette party,” he says. “On me.”
“Right away, Mr. Siderov.”
My heart is doing a tango as I turn to him. “Should I also call youMr. Siderov?”
“Konstantin is fine.”
“Konstantin,” I repeat, just to feel the letters on my tongue.I like the way that sounds.I extend my hand. “I’m Emily.”
He takes my hand in his, and I’m overwhelmed by the same warmth that I felt at the airport when he helped me up from the ground.
“I think I prefer Kitty Cat,” he says.
I do my best not to imagine those fingers pressing against my thighs, or fantasize how good it’d feel like to have them push my legs apart while those gorgeous eyes look at me from below.
Jesus, calm down! Just thank him and be on your way.
“Do you own this place or something?” I ask him. “Is that why you’re here?”
“No,” he replies. “I happen to know the owner.”
“That sounds familiar,” I muse. “Do you happen to know the owner of every establishment here?”
His smirk is like a crescent moon. “Noteveryone of them, Kitty Cat. But close enough that it doesn’t matter.”
“So why are you here? And I don’t mean here in this club. I mean the Amalfi Coast.”
“I told you.” His smile dips slightly, but doesn’t fully leave his face. “Work.”
I wonder what kind of work he does.But before I can ask, someone suddenly bumps me hard enough to send me stumbling to the floor.
I spin around, ready to tear into the asshole, but Konstantin is already standing between us. He’s not looking at me, but at the man who just knocked me down.
“Apologize.” Konstantin’s voice is hard as iron, audible even over the pounding bass reverberating through the club. “Now.”
The man curls his lips, ready to say something foul. At the last second Konstantin shifts his body, like he’s adjusting his jacket. The guy freezes, glancing down at something I can’t see. The knob in his neck flexes before he looks over at me.
Even in the club’s odd lighting, I can tell his face is pale.
