Cynda and the City Doctor - Theodora Taylor Page 0,65

it every five years kind of girl.

But the sleek, dark furniture in this penthouse looks like it was handpicked from a showroom. The kind that’s not open to the general public and is staffed by people who wear suits—not striped yellow shirts and jeans.

There’s a slate black coffee table between the couches with a gorgeous chess set on top. The pieces are painted black and red instead of the usual black and white. A nod to Russia maybe?

There’s also art on the wall. Colorful as if to provide contrast to the dark furniture. I don’t recognize any of it, but I am sure it costs a fortune.

To top it all off, the entire back wall is composed of floor-to-ceiling windows filled with a twinkling view of the stadium where the Charleston Knights play hockey and the Ashley River beyond it.

No, I definitely don’t belong here.

Neither does my brother.

He’s barely making ends meet as a third-stringer going through a messy divorce after his wife caught him cheating. What is he doing in this opulent apartment? And again, who’s this Mr. Rustanov?

I decide against asking Vlad these questions. I’d had plenty of them for him as I’d driven myself to this high rise. But the only question he’d answered had been the one about him killing me.

“I have no intention of harming you,” he’d assured me. “But your brother’s debt will need to be negotiated and he said you were only one who could provide this service.”

Okay, that sort of made sense. Even before I got my degree, I’d been Clem’s de facto financial manager. The person who made sure he still had a pot to pee in after he spent his earnings on any number of idiotic things.

The gun part was scary for sure, but other than that, this looks like yet another jam I’m fully capable of getting my brother out of.

I hope.

Either way, I wait quietly as instructed until suddenly the apartment erupts with yells and groans.

“It looks like Mr. Rustanov has won.” Vlad cuts his eyes at my brother. “Again.”

I also look at my brother. He asked me to move in for just a few weeks while he searched for his own apartment. That had been back in January. Now it’s March, and apparently instead of saving up for a deposit as he’d assured me he was doing, Clem had been here all night. Losing so much money to this Mr. Rustanov guy that he was being detained here against our will.

“Mr. Rustanov and his guests will be done soon,” Vlad says to me, smoothly flashing the gun underneath his jacket again. “Some advice. Do not cause a scene when they come out. If you make this night difficult for Mr. Rustanov, I will have to make your entire life difficult. Both yours and your brother’s.”

Wow, this guy is an excellent threat-maker.

I’m still not sure what’s going on, but I keep my mouth shut. Even when a cadre of North and South Carolina Who’s Who spills out from the hallway into the front to the apartment.

I’m talking three of my brother’s teammates, some basketball players, and even my boss’s favorite golfer. There’s also a bunch of muscular white guys I don’t recognize. But I’m pretty sure they’re also athletes. They have that air about them. Especially the tallest of the white guys. He stands nearly as tall as the basketball players and nearly as musclebound as the football players. And he seems familiar somehow, but I can’t place where I’ve seen him.

Is he Mr. Rustanov? The one who owns this stunning apartment? Whoever, he is, he’s clearly The Winner. Everyone is either complaining loudly about the last game or congratulating him on winning it.

The Winner doesn’t seem to notice us, sitting just a few feet away in the sunken den living room that may or may not be his. He doesn’t so much as glance in our direction. But I stare at him. How can I not?

If you combined the salaries of the athletes he’s surrounded by, it would be more than the GDP of some countries. Though if I’m being honest I’m not paying much attention to all the superstars. As famous 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