53. Max

Tonight's event is a complete fucking waste of my time. The only reason I'm here is because Travis Stockton, one of the main investors in my casino development, insisted I come. I could have declined, but I'd rather not offend him without a decent reason.

The guy is an asshole. He's rich, cunning, and gets off on manipulating those around him. He thinks he has a hold over me because of the money he's investing in the casino, even though he stands to gain a fuck-ton of cash from it.

While it would inconvenience me if he pulled the plug on his cash injection, I'm not a dancing pony and he needs to learn that.

"Drink, sir?" A young woman in a traditional maid's uniform, complete with a frilly white apron, offers me a glass of champagne from a silver tray. I struggle to contain my amusement.

Stockton likes to think he's from old money, but the unseemly truth is that his mother, April, married into money by virtue of her looks and ambition. April Stockton is Henry Stockton's second wife; the first died in a freak accident. Henry married April less than a year later.

"Thank you," I murmur, taking a glass. The waitress trots off, joining the other serving staff as they mingle with trays of canapes and drinks.

There's no sign of Stockton thus far, but no doubt he'll appear fashionably late. The guy loves to make a dramatic entrance.

Sasha is somewhere around, schmoozing and keeping his ear open for useful information. Stockton was kind enough to say I could bring a plus one. I'm sure he expected me to show up with some pretty vapid thing on my arm, but instead, I brought Sasha.

Stockton can make of that what he likes.

"Maxim, darling, Travis didn't mention you were coming?" A familiar voice purrs in my ear like a well-bred cat.

I turn around to see Cecelia, Stockton's wife. She's a beautiful woman. Blond, sleek, and stylish. Far too attractive for Stockton, who resembles a lumpy potato stuffed into a Tom Ford suit.

Cecelia and I had a short fling a couple of years ago. She was fun in the sack but I prefer not to mix business with pleasure and cut her loose pretty fast. Judging by the way she's drinking me up in my Armani jacket, she's hoping I'll rekindle things.

Sasha tells me Stockton's tastes in females run a lot younger than Cecelia, who's now on the wrong side of 40. But while Stockton is happy to stick his dick in anything that moves, Cecelia has to be a lot more discreet.

Stockton still has no idea I fucked his wife.

I'm keeping that to myself for now.

"Your husband insisted I come," I tell her, keeping my tone neutral.

"Yes, my darling husband does like to flaunt his good fortune." A flicker of discontent flashes across her flawless face before she forces a smile and places one perfectly manicured hand on my bicep. "Are you here alone this evening?"

In other words, are you free to service me?

"No." I don't bother elaborating.

Her smooth face falls, but there's no sign of a wrinkle.

"Ah, that's a shame." A year ago, I probably would have fucked her without a second thought, enjoyed it even, but now? I feel nothing. Not even a twitch below my belt, despite the slinky dress she wears and the way her eyes heat when she looks at me.

Natalya has ruined me.

I'm fucking broken.

"Cecelia, you're looking as beautiful as ever," Sasha says, laying on the charm. He smiles flirtatiously as Cecelia immediately switches her attention from me to him.

Sasha's not quite as broad as me, but he is a handsome bastard, and the ladies love him. It always amazes me how charming he can be with women, whereas he gives me nothing but shit.

I murmur my excuses and leave him to flirt with Cecelia.

He's welcome to her.

Two hours later I've lost the will to live. Stockton bent my ear for thirty minutes, boasting about how many animals he shot on a recent hunting trip while I gritted my teeth and tried to show some interest.

Eventually, he paused to suck in a breath and I was able to make my excuses and leave.

The conversation around my end of the table has been interminable. The older woman on my left sniffs dramatically each time I so much as glance in her direction, and the younger woman on my right has done nothing but stare at the table like it holds the secrets to the universe.

Sasha switched the place cards around so he could sit next to Cecelia. He's been regaling her with anecdotes all evening. Cecelia is smitten. She soaks up male attention like a desert flower after a rain shower.

Stockton is oblivious. He's far too busy watching one of the waitresses as she maneuvers carefully around the table, collecting used dinnerware and cutlery.

The girl can't be more than 18 and I frown. He and the mayor have a lot in common, it seems, and I'm beginning to wonder if they are more closely acquainted than I realized.

Sasha follows my gaze and sees why I'm scowling. His dark eyes pass over the young woman sat next to me and pause for a moment. There's a flicker of interest then he nods at me and stands, making some excuse to Cecelia about needing to take a comfort break.

Stockton's security system is state of the art, but Sasha has already inserted a back door so he can disable the camera in Stockton's study. In his pocket, he carries a small USB device. Once it's inserted into any computers Sasha finds in Stockton's office, it will release a code that lets Sasha access the operating system remotely once we have departed.

Whatever Sasha finds will come in useful. Whether for blackmail purposes or to ensure Stockton is not planning to double-cross me.

A tall guy with tattoos peeking out from his tailored shirt strolls down the length of the table as more servers appear with pots of steaming coffee and small almond biscuits. He pauses behind the young woman and grips her shoulder.

"Zaria," he hisses in a low voice. "Try to look as if you're enjoying yourself."

The name snags in my brain. What is Zoltan's daughter called? Zella? Zola?

Her hand reaches out for the glass of water next to her untouched dessert. The guy leans forward and says something I don't catch. Her hand jerks, knocking the glass sideways. Water soaks into the cloth, some of it splashing into my lap.

Great. Now I look like I've pissed myself. Could this evening get any worse?

"For fuck's sake, Zaria," the guy snarls, stealing a sideways look at me as I mop up the water ineffectually. Then he freezes when he sees my face.

"Maxim Petrov?"

My gaze snaps up. This guy is no businessman. He looks more like a part of my world, but I don't recognize him.

"Do we know each other?" My voice is hard. I dislike being caught on the hop and Sasha's not here to smooth the way with his charm.

"Vlad Milosovic. You know of my father, Zoltan. He and your father were acquainted before…."

Oh fuck. If this is Zoltan's son, then she must be… my wife-to-be.