Billie and the Russian Beast - Theodora Taylor Page 0,3

as they are, my eyes keep coming back to him.

The Winner.

He has dark hair—I’m not sure what color. It’s cut close to his head in a way that would make him seem like a criminal or military if he wasn’t surrounded by elite athletes. He’s wearing a blazer over a v-necked t-shirt and jeans, which makes him stand out, even in this crowd.

A few of the mega-athletes glance our way but most of them keep their eyes on The Winner until the last one declares that his car is here and leaves.

And did I think The Winner hadn’t seen us?

As soon as the elevator dings shut behind his last guest, the affable expression fades from his face and he turns toward us.

I stand on instinct. Facing him down like tax season as he strides forward, his light green gaze laser-focused on us.

Actually, not us…me. His eyes hold me and me only. And when he stops right in front of me, it feels the same as having a Mack truck suddenly brake, right before it runs you over.

He’s even bigger up close. Not basketball tall or football heavy, but close enough. I’m tallish for a woman, but he towers over me. And the thin t-shirt and blazer ensemble he’s wearing hug his muscles tight.

“This is Clemson’s sister, as requested,” Vlad says beside me. “Princess South Carolina.”

The Winner’s green gaze rakes over me. And I swear I can feel it pressing into my skin as it moves up my body. All the way from the bottom of my toes to the top of my head.

I didn’t choose to be here. And I don’t like or date athletes. Yet, suddenly I feel self-conscious. I fight the urge to pull my sisterlocks out of their messy over-the-shoulder braids and groom myself.

For him. For The Winner who pulled me away from an exciting weekend of preparing for the CPA exam.

But right now, the only thing getting studied is me.

I swallow, feeling even more scared than when I turned around to find a stranger in my kitchen.

Even though The Winner hasn’t said a word, his intensity speaks volumes. And the examination goes on for several excruciating seconds.

Eventually, his mouth turns up at the corner and he glances over at Clem. “You were right. She is very good girl. Upstanding.”

The Winner has a Russian accent, too. Not as heavy and broken as his employee, but close enough. Maybe I was mistaken about him being an athlete. Could he be mafia?

And they were talking about me before I got here? My stomach knots with fear. Seriously, what has my brother gotten himself into? Gotten the both of us into?

I glance over my shoulder at Clem, who’s still sitting on the couch like a little boy awaiting his punishment. Then I turn back to the Russian, irritation and fear chasing the next words out of my mouth. “Look, I don’t know why you had me dragged out of my house at four in the morning, but congratulations, you’ve officially freaked me out. Now can you please tell me what this is all about?”

Another amused half-smile…that instantly disappears.

“Clem, Vlad, you will give us the room,” he says without looking away from me.

Chapter Three

That one command is all it takes. Vlad grabs Clem by the arm, and Clem doesn’t fight him at all as he’s pulled off the couch.

“Clem…” I say when I realize he’s planning on leaving me here alone with a man I just met.

“It’s okay, Billie, he won’t hurt you,” Clem says as Vlad pulls him past us. “He promised.”

“He promised? What do you mean he promised?” I call after him. “What’s going on?”

The only answer I get to those questions is the ding of the elevator Vlad and my brother have obviously gotten on. Oh God, my brother’s been dragged away.

And now I’m alone.

With the huge Russian winner.

I turn back to face him, my heart racing with a strange mix of curiosity, fear, and uncertainty. What now?

Apparently, introductions.

“Hello, I am happy to make your acquaintance,” he says, holding out a large hand to me. “Cheslav Rustanov. But you may call me Chess.”

Chess…

Suddenly I know why he seems familiar. This was the hockey player we got a few years back. Some big deal who’d won three Stanley Cups, according to the local NPR station. For a while the city seemed to be littered with billboards of him standing next to a red king chess piece and the declaration, “The King has come to play for the Charleston Knights.”

So