Skylar blushed beet red. Such a compliment! From such an important man! That very morning, her brother had called her a fat-ass, and her mom had told her to clean up her room and stop acting like a twelve-year- old.
They should only know that the esteemed Senator had just called her a beautiful woman.
‘Thank you, Senator,’ she murmured.
He moved closer to her, placing both his hands on her shoulders.
She didn’t dare move. He reminded her of a teacher she’d had in high school. Older, nice-looking in a very buttoned-up all-American way.
He had lovely brown eyes. Honest eyes. Eyes she could trust.
He lowered his voice and said, ‘Did you hear what I told you, Skylar? You are very beautiful.’
Hammond had learned over the years that tell any woman — old or young — that they are beautiful, and be they rabid dog or true beauty, they always believed you. There were no exceptions.
‘Uh… yes… uh… thank you,’ Skylar muttered, flattered yet at the same time wishing he’d remove his hands from her shoulders, as it was creeping her out. She remembered hearing stories in history class about an intern at the White House way back when Bill Clinton was President — apparently he’d come on to the intern or vice-versa, Skylar couldn’t remember which, but whatever it was, it had almost gotten him impeached. Not that she thought Senator Patterson was about to do anything, but still — she wished he’d remove his hands.
He didn’t.
He moved a tad closer.
He slid his hands down until they cupped both her breasts.
Skylar was mortified. This couldn’t be happening. The Senator was a married man. She was a teenager and he had to be somewhere in his late thirties. This wasn’t right.
She froze, unable to move.
‘You have beautiful breasts,’ he said. ‘I noticed them the first time I saw you.’
She opened her mouth to object, but nothing came out.
He manoeuvred his hands under her sweater and expertly lifted her bra so that it rested above her breasts. Then his fingers began tweaking her nipples.
She was so confused, fully aware that she should stop him. But suddenly new feelings began flooding her body. The way he was touching her was making her feel excited and breathless. The Senator’s touch was so different from the furtive fumblings of her on/off again boyfriend whom she’d never allowed beyond second base — the reason they were always fighting.
‘Do you like this?’ the Senator questioned, circling her nipples with his fingertips. ‘Does it make you excited?’
She managed a strangled yes, imagining her mom’s face if her mom ever found out.
The Senator raised her sweater, and bent his head to suck on one of her erect nipples. He stopped for just a moment to ask, ‘And this?’
Her throat was dry, and she knew she should object, only the way he was making her feel was too good — she didn’t want him to stop what he was doing. Never. Ever.
Hammond experienced a moment of triumph. Skylar was primed. Enough action on big-breasted girls and they were all yours. Nothing like a little nipple-play to get them creamed up and ready to go. Hammond knew this for sure.
‘I cannot resist you,’ he crooned, seducing her with his words. ‘You’re like a delicious candy. Your breasts are incredible.’
Compliments were an important part of the initial seduction. Compliments and foreplay — a winning combination.
Sierra checked her watch. It was late and still no sign of Hammond. She ate a solitary dinner without him and finally retired to bed.
Tomorrow they would be on their way, and who knew what would happen?
Maybe she could push him overboard in the middle of the night, and then her problems would be over.
She smiled grimly to herself.
If only…
Chapter Thirty-Two
‘I dunno what you’re talking about,’ the girl muttered, sitting stiffly in a chair in the living room of the house she shared with her boyfriend in Arizona.
‘No?’ Sergei Zukov questioned, a nerve in his left cheek twitching out of control. He stood in front of her, angry and disgusted that she was trying to deny who she was. They’d met only once before when Boris had taken her to a cousin’s wedding in Moscow. Five long years ago. She’d had long black hair then and dressed like a Goth. He remembered asking Boris what he was doing with such an odd creature. Boris had chuckled and muttered something about getting off on strange-looking women. After Boris’s death, Sergei had discovered the girl was a heroin addict, and unbeknownst to Boris had been selling information about him to feed her habit. Boris had always gone for females who walked a dangerous path, and it had eventually turned out to be his downfall.
Now the girl had cropped bleached hair, wore denim shorts, a tank top, and a long green cardigan. She had thin lips, bad skin, and spoke with a fake American accent.
It was her, no doubt about it.
Sergei hated the sight of her.
‘So what you are telling me is that your name is not Nona, and that you never lived with my brother in Moscow?’ he said, circling her chair. ‘Is that correct?’
She scowled at him, vigorously shaking her head. ‘My name’s Margie,’ she spat. ‘I’m an American citizen, an’ I know my rights, so get the fuck outta my house.’
He’d arrived at the house ten minutes earlier. She’d opened the door, thinking it was a delivery. He’d had two of his men with him, and they’d grabbed her and placed her in the chair like a puppet. She hadn’t screamed, instead she’d glared wilfully at him, her eyes full of hatred. She knew why he was there.
‘I am Boris’s brother,’ he’d said. ‘And you
She’d said nothing.
‘You know why I am here, don’t you?’ he’d continued. ‘I can see it in your face.’
That’s when she’d denied knowing what he was talking about.
‘My husband will be home soon,’ she said, her eyes darting furtively towards the door. ‘He has a gun, and he’s not afraid to use it.’
‘The man you live with is not your husband and you are not Margie,’ Sergei stated coldly.
‘Screw you,’ she said in a low angry voice. ‘You don’t scare me, so like I said — get the fuck out.’
‘I will when I recover the money you stole, and the information I require,’ Sergei said, quite calm apart from the giveaway muscle twitch in his left cheek.
‘Whistle for it, asshole,’ she said, full of defiance. ‘The money’s long gone.’
Sergei was a patient man when he had to be; however, he was not about to play word games with this tough bitch all day.
It took two hours, but after a certain amount of physical persuasion she’d finally cracked, revealing that she’d sold information to an American journalist about Boris’s plans to kidnap one of Aleksandr Kasianenko’s daughters, and that the journalist must have gone straight to Kasianenko with the information, for twenty-four hours later Boris was dead and Nona had taken flight, afraid for her own life.
Sergei was finally satisfied, for he now had everything he needed.
The fat cat billionaire, Aleksandr Kasianenko, was the man responsible for his brother’s death.
