Damien's Mate - Anastasia Wilde Page 0,1

where Damien grew up in luxury for—well, ever.

Right now, the ballroom was filled with glittering chandeliers and glittering crystal and glittering people. Men in tuxes and women in shiny gowns, dripping with jewels.

Fence a couple of those necklaces, and he’d be set up for life. Unless he became dead.

A text came in on his security cellphone. From Marco.

Check out the chick in the shiny blue dress. 3 o’clock. I give her a 9. Maybe a 9.2. I wanna just spray Reddi-whip between them bazombas and bury my face in ‘em.

Whatcha think of the one in that mermaid-lookin’ outfit? 8? 8.5?

Damien almost laughed, even though this was the guy who was going to kill him later. The thing was, Marco really was trying to be friendly.

Marco loved people. He’d be joking with you right up to the time he took you out back and shot you in the head.

Damien texted back: 8.3 on the mermaid. Hope she doesn’t smell like fish.

He had to answer. You didn’t want to hurt Marco’s feelings and end up bleeding out slowly in a dumpster from a gut wound, instead of getting it quick and clean.

His phone vibrated again.

Whoooooooa. Red dress. 10 o’clock. You oughta ice that Russian prick early and get a piece of that action.

Damien looked over to his left, and… whoa.

A goddess was in the building. Long sparkling red dress with a slit all the way up the thigh, golden brown hair that cascaded down her shoulders in the kind of thick waves that a guy just wanted to lose himself in.

Dark red lipstick that he wanted to kiss right off her lips, and golden brown skin that he’d pay money to sink his teeth into. If that wasn’t enough, she moved like a dancer.

Damien had a thing for dancers.

Unfortunately, this woman was draped over Anton Rostov, one of the Russian mob’s youngest and most brutal bosses.

The one he was supposed to kill. That job was looking a little more appealing right about now.

He wondered what made a woman want to be with a guy like that. Money? Power? Danger? The disturbing magnetism certain truly evil guys had?

She was a surprising choice for the Russian, in Damien’s mind. He’d’ve pegged Rostov as the type who liked his women easily subdued and not prone to think for themselves.

This woman had an aura of leashed power. She was keeping it under wraps, but people who were used to handling dangerous situations had a certain way of carrying themselves—an unconscious confidence.

The woman in the red dress looked sexy but dangerous, like a lion lazing in the sun. Hiding the fact that it could spring into action any second and bite your fucking arm off.

She stood out in this roomful of brittle, anemic beauties like an exotic flower in a bouquet of pink roses. Hot and alive.

Who the hell was she? She looked like a sexy spy from the movies. Or an undercover FBI agent.

Whatever—she was out of his league. But he could look. Hell, he wasn’t dead yet.

Barely taking his eyes off her, he texted back to Marco: Salzano would kill me for doing it early, but fuuuuuuck. What a way to go.

He better be careful. Another minute of fantasizing about her, and the weapon in his pants was going to be bigger than the weapon in his holster.

She looked up and met his eyes, and he felt like he’d just stuck his hand in an electric socket. Her eyes widened slightly in surprise—almost like she’d felt it too—but then her expression changed to the slow smile of a woman who knew the guy looking at her was on the verge of a full-on boner.

Then Rostov said something to her, and she turned back attentively to him.

Damien clasped his hands in front of his crotch and went back to his security guard stance, watching the rest of the room with a blank-faced stare.

A few minutes later a waiter came by with a tray that held a glass of champagne, and offered it to him. “I can’t drink, I’m on duty,” he said automatically.

The waiter rolled his eyes and handed him the cocktail napkin off the tray. It had a note on it—with a lipstick kiss. It said, Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?

It was a fuckin’ cliché, but it still made him smile.

He looked up to see the woman in red watching him. Rostov had gone off somewhere while Damien was trying not to undress her with