5

I’m in an office of some sort. Very masculine, dark palette, brooding. It’s shadowy in here, though there’s light coming through a set of French doors. When I walk over, I realize the attached balcony looks out over the rear lawn. Most of the crowd has shuffled outside, so it’s a maze of bodies. The sound of laughter and clinking glasses rises up to meet me. There’s no sign of Prince Testosterone or his friend.

I turn my back on the balcony and fish my phone out of my purse. I press Jorden’s contact and hold it up to my ear. It rings and rings, and then:

“Heeeey! Girl, where’d you go? This party is crazy!”

Oh jeez. Jorden is blitzed beyond belief. I know that looseness in her voice, that cackle. The girl is D-R-U-N-K. She isn’t coming to save me.

I’m all on my own.

“Uh, never mind,” I mumble into the phone. “Butt dial. I’m coming to find you. One sec.” I hang up and drop my phone onto the nearby couch.

I find a lamp in the corner and click it on. The rip is in the back, so I need to get this dress off and try to finagle some kind of safety pin stopgap solution good enough to get me out of here without mooning every partygoer in attendance. With a grimace and a prayer, I start trying to peel off the dress while doing the least damage possible.

The back where the drunkard’s hands went is pretty ruined, but if I can just wriggle out of it carefully and find a safety pin around here somewhere, there’s a chance I’ll be able to—

Riiiiip.

Never mind. I’m screwed.

My oh-so-careful efforts have just extended the rip even further. As soon as I let my hands go limp, the dress parts in two like wilted flower petals and pools around my feet. I’m left standing there, in the middle of some stranger’s office, in nothing but high heels and nipple pasties.

Which, of course, is when the door opens.

For a second, I hold out hope that it’s Jorden, here to provide backup.

But it’s not Jorden.

It’s not Jorden at all.

5

IVAN

It’d be a mistake to call her the girl in the green dress—mostly because she’s not in the green dress anymore. It’s puddled around her feet and she’s not wearing a stitch of anything. Just high heels and nipple covers.

I close the door behind me. “No one is supposed to be in here.”

“I’m hiding,” she blurts, trying her best to cover herself up, not that it does much good. I’d have to be Mother fucking Teresa to keep my eyes off of her body.

Fucking hell, she’s stunning.

I swallow down the rush of desire. “Stripping, hiding, I don’t give a shit what you call it—but you can’t do it here.”

She levels me with a glare that rivals the one she gave the Greek mutt outside. “And who are you? Security?”

“You must be joking.”

She doesn’t know who I am? I call bullshit. Everyone here knows who I am.

She’s blushing from head to toe—I can see every inch of flushed skin—but she doesn’t shy away. “So, not security, then? Probably some trust fund baby who thinks you own every room you walk into.”

“Big words from someone skulking through a stranger’s house naked.”

“Hiding!” she yelps again. “And believe me, I would give anything to be clothed right now. Preferably in sweatpants and a hoodie with a parka on top, but beggars can’t be choosers. I’d accept that strappy, skin-tight monstrosity on the ground right now if it would just cooperate.”

She hates this party, she doesn’t know who I am, and instead of bragging to me about who designed her ruined dress, she’s longing for sweats.

She can’t be real.

A breeze blows through the open doors and the woman in front of me shivers. Before I can second-guess the instinct, I shrug out of my jacket.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

Good question. It might be the first time in my life I’ve voluntarily asked a woman to put on more clothes.

Her eyes are wide and shockingly green as she shrinks away from me. Like a dog that’s been kicked so many times it’s sure that the only thing the future could hold is more pain.

“Beggars can’t be choosers.” I dangle my jacket in the air between us. “Take it or leave it.”

She watches me warily for another long breath before she lunges for the jacket and slips it on.

Her skin disappears beneath the long sleeves and broad shoulders. The jacket absolutely swallows her, but I’m not laughing. Somehow, the image of her swimming in my jacket is even more tantalizing than her taut, naked skin.

She tucks the material around her middle and crosses her arms to secure it. “Thanks. For a second, I thought you were going to parade me out of here naked as punishment.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Don’t threaten me,” she retorts.

“Don’t act like it would be all bad. You’d be the center of attention.”

“Don’t act like all women want the same thing.”

I arch an amused eyebrow. “Don’t they? You got all dolled up and marched in here to sell your soul to Ivan Pushkin. Just like the rest of them.”

“Not you, too?” she murmurs. “Ivan this, Ivan that. Everyone can’t get enough of the guy. Who even is he?”

I join her at the window, gazing down at the partygoers below. “Everyone is here because they want to marry him.”

“I’m sure he thinks so.” She wrinkles her nose and points at a paunchy man standing by the shrubs. “What about that one?”

I clock the person she’s pointing at immediately. My mind whirrs and conjures up the relevant facts. Valmor Shundi. Albanian underboss. Likes his whiskey aged for seventeen years and his women for less than that.

“Him, too. The poor bastard has a nasty drug problem and is about to get caught for stealing money from his clients. He needs his daughters to secure a good match now before his name turns to shit.”

“How do you know that?”

“I know everything.” I point out the scrawny Italian man next to the stage. Again, my mind hums and pulls up what I need to know. Alfonso Marciano. A Rossi family underboss. Cokehead. “That one is into group sex with his boss and his wife.”