The Player (The Game Maker #3) - Kresley Cole Page 0,2
short, less-endowed indie version of her. At twenty-eight, she was all long-legged grace, confidence, and effortless sex-appeal; around men, if I didn’t concentrate, I could come across as standoffish—a kiss of death for a honey trap.
Pete rushed to say, “You’re an ace at cards, and your grift sense is the most honed of anybody I know. Your instincts in those stock schemes kept the lights on for the entire family. But stocks are out forever.”
We’d conned the wrong people, and they wanted their money back—plus interest. “Our deadline is only twenty days away, and you’re benching me?” No wonder everyone had texted me encouragement tonight! Yet I’d failed to pluck the low-hanging fruit.
“It’s because the deadline’s on us.” He exhaled. “You’re wasting marks that Karin could close.” Over the last several weeks, she’d run a ton of lechers. She even had a two-timing congressman in the pipeline for tomorrow.
I hadn’t gotten a mark anywhere near our hidden-camera prop house.
Karin was my best friend, but sometimes I felt like screaming, “Marcia, Marcia, Marcia!”
In a softer tone, Pete said, “All you need is a little brushing up on your, you know, sexual manipulation skills, but we don’t have time right now.”
Sexual manipulation skills? Really? How did he think I got all those lowlifes to invest in our bogus stock deals?
By making sure they read my cleavage instead of the writing on the wall!
“When you’re not so exhausted, you’ll see where I’m coming from,” Pete said. “Why don’t you skip Dmitri and rest up?”
My eyes widened with realization. “You’ve already decided to cut the Sevastyans! My ‘assignment’ to dig . . . it’s busy work, isn’t it?” To make me feel better about Nigel!
After a moment, Pete raised his palms.
Busy work and babysitting. If he sidelined me, I’d go crazy in the next three weeks. How could I not be out fighting for my loved ones?
I burned to prove my value and contribute when they needed me most. My gaze darted up, landing on a beast’s lair. Words started leaving my mouth: “You know what? You’re not going to bench me. Because I’m gonna run game on the juiciest mark of them all—Dmitri Sevastyan.”
CHAPTER 2
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Pete laughed—until he saw I was serious. “Karin couldn’t get a word out of him.”
Last night, when Pete had heard the Sevastyans were heading down to the VIP lounge, he’d sent me home and called in the family’s MVP for a milk-cow con—one of the most difficult of the long cons.
In a milk-cow, a temptress would whip a mark into a sexual frenzy, teasingly withholding intercourse to maneuver him into buying jewelry, cars, even real estate.
“Not a single word.” Pete shook his head. “Even though Dmitri was dateless, and she was on.”
If Karin couldn’t get the Russian to engage, then he wasn’t engage-able. But I’d talked a big game. “Then I won’t be wasting a potential mark, will I?”
“Don’t be pissed.”
I handed Pete my purse. “Pissed? Me? Haven’t you heard?” I started toward the stairs, saying over my shoulder, “I’m cold as ice.”
In reality, I was so pissed I almost stomped up the steps. But I controlled my temper, keeping my heels from striking the tile surface. Maybe I could sneak up on Dmitri and observe him unawares.
I knew the basics about him from Pete’s copious notes. Thirty-two years old, a resident of Russia, raised in Siberia. Youngest of the three brothers. A computer and math prodigy.
He’d graduated at the top of his class from Oxford, then founded a company that revolutionized aspects of business computing. He’d cashed out with a couple of patents, retiring a billionaire. Yet there were few mentions of him online—and zero pictures.
As I stepped onto the deck, I raised my brows at the beast’s extravagant lair. Fire pits lit the area. A hot tub steamed under a wisteria-covered trellis, and a mosaic-tiled fountain sloshed against the back wall. A fully stocked bar stood off to the side, unmanned.
I spotted Dmitri at the railing, taking in the city’s vista. Not another soul was up here.
I silently approached, noting details about him. He had a muscular build and stood well over six feet, even taller than my ex’s six foot three.
My grandmother would call Dmitri Sevastyan a mountain of a man. He’d tower over my five feet four.
His expensive clothes were so well made, I nearly salivated. He wore tailored gray slacks that highlighted his narrow hips and tight ass. His charcoal-colored shirt clung to his back and arm muscles.