Royal left the restaurant quickly and headed towards the boutique in an eager stride.
While she had every intention of going back to Royal Flush, it was only to get the clothes that the stranger had purchased and hand-deliver them to him. There were things that had not been said, that needed to be said. He knew more than he led on, and she intended to find out what.
* * *
Dorian stood in the shower letting the hot water drench his tired muscles and relieve the tension in his back. That damned woman was still on his mind, even after many hours of planning to kill her husband. Her heart-shaped lips, her chocolate skin, her full breasts. They were features drawn from a comic book, so pronounced and beautiful. Three years of Dmitry's constant doting had done her well.
She looked like she did not have a care in the world until you looked into her dark eyes. They spoke volumes. They spoke of Ivan. He knew that it was Royal the moment he laid eyes on her. She looked like the woman in the photos only less innocent now, much less innocent. But he wanted to immediately reach out and kiss her. It was a strange reaction, and he was ashamed of it, but he could not deny his utter attraction to Dmitry's muse. She made him think of what it would be like to have his own family. After all, he was forty now. No wife. No children.
Dmitry was a lucky man. If he had Royal, even for just one night…
The door bell rang. He wiped the water from his face and turned off the shower. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he grabbed his gun and walked slowly to the door.
He looked out the peep hole to find Royal standing on the other side of the door. He stood back. Was this a trap? Or was it something else? He opened the door just enough to see her face.
"Your dress, sir," Royal said, holding up the dress bag. "And your jewelry for the soon-to-be Mrs. Oriachiav."
"Of course," Dorian said, looking behind her. "Are you alone?"
"Yes," she sighed. "Open the door. I know there's no one in there." Her voice was firm and low.
He paused then opened it, standing out of the way for her to pass. She walked in with the bags and looked around the suite.
Laying the dress across the nearest table, she turned around and looked at him. "I came to talk," she said, taking a seat. "But I'm sure that you already know that. It's the only reason you told me where to find you."
Dorian stood soaking wet with only a damp towel covering his large body. He wasn't nearly as tall as Dmitry, but he was a devastatingly handsome, milk-chocolate, muscular man with wavy hair, full lips, brilliantly bright brown eyes and chiseled features that made him appear to be more of a model than a mafia figure.
He clenched his towel tightly forbidding it to show the evident bulge between his large thighs. She was no longer a modest woman. She gawked at him outright, assessing all of his assets, making mental note all of his features. She drank him in without looking away.
"Goodness woman, where are you manners?" he asked finally.
"I don't know what you mean," she lied. "If you feel uncomfortable, you should probably go and get dressed." She crossed her legs and gave him a snooty look.
"How do I know that I trust you to sit there and not snoop until I return, huh?"
"Fine. Dress here," she crossed her arms. "I've only seen two men naked in my adult life. I'd be obliged to see one who wasn't biologically related to a Medlov."
"And I thought that you should be afraid of me," he said sarcastically.
"Well… "
He smirked. At least she had a since of humor. He dropped his towel and walked to the duffle bag only steps away from her to retrieve his underwear. Her eyes bulged out of her head as she watched his well-endowed manhood flop lazily across this thigh. There was clear satisfaction on her face.
In her mind, she could not help but think of Dmitry kissing that whore of a woman, Victoria. Suddenly, she felt vindicated.
"This is inappropriate," he said, slipping on his boxers. "You should be ashamed."
"I'm not," she said, stoned faced. "I enjoyed that. Spasiba. Now, on to my questions. Why are you here? Who are you? Where do you know the Medlov's from? What are your intentions? Where's your fucking fiancée?"
"Slow down," he raised his hand. "Please." Running his hand over his head, he grabbed his cargo pants and slipped them on. "Now that I'm at least presentable, would you care for anything to drink?"
"No. This isn't a social visit. I want to know what the hell you know about me."
"Nothing."
"Don't lie to me. Tell me the truth," she breathed heavily. "Or I'll call him. I'll tell him that I'm here and when he gets here, I'll still know who you are—right before he kills you. You might as well do it the easy way."
"I'm a business partner." He clenched his jaw and leaned over to her. "You need to be very, very careful about what threats you make."
"Oh, I know about threats. And unfortunately for you, they don't scare me anymore." She swallowed hard. "Now, what's your real name?"
"Dorian." He stood up.
"Why did you come to my shop?" she eyed his hairy six-pack.
"When I got here, I heard that Dmitry had another dress shop. It was too coincidental. So I came here to see for myself. I thought you were dead many years ago." He went to his bag and pulled out a t-shirt.
"I did die." Tears formed at the corners of her eyes. "Ivan killed me."
