Under Control: A Fake Marriage Mafia Romance

I’m so nervous I can barely think straight as I hurry down the block and toward a row of gorgeous, multi-million-dollar homes.

Wearing nothing but a long black jacket.

It’s basically one of those creepy flasher trench coats from cliché comic books.

And in this case, that cliché is entirely accurate.

Because I’m totally naked underneath.

Just a pair of black heels and my birthday suit.

Thankfully, it’s a comfortable spring day in Philadelphia, as I keep my head down and barrel toward the front door of a beautiful Old City row home. This is the most exclusive part of the city, where all the rich people live, and definitely not where I belong.

Except I’m working.

In nothing but a freaking trench coat.

This wasn’t my idea. Merrick basically bullied me into it when he offered to pay me a thousand bucks just to stand around and let him sketch me.

Given that I’m broke and on the verge of getting evicted, a thousand bucks so an extremely talented gay man can get some figure practice in sounds like a really good deal to me.

I swear, everyone knows. An old woman walks past with her little yappy white dog on a leash and both of them are staring at me. She’s judging; the dog seems cool with it.

Up ahead, a couple of teenagers are coming toward me on bikes, and I could scream. They’re staring and they know I’m naked under this jacket.

Or maybe they just want to make sure they’re not going to run me over.

I’m a total mess. I’ve never gotten naked in front of a man before, gay or otherwise, and this is really screwing me up. I know Merrick is legit—I’ve seen his work and he’s incredibly talented—but I still can’t help but wonder if this is a huge mistake.

Will people recognize me in his drawings? He promised not to use my face, but he’ll probably end up selling whatever he produces today. Is that going to ruin my life or something?

But no, this is stupid, I’m spiraling for no reason. It’s totally normal for people to pose nude for artists. I reach his front stoop and charge up to the door without taking in any of the details, mostly because I’m so deep in my own head.

And extremely impressed. I knew Merrick did well—the designer suits and fancy cars tipped me off—but not this well.

Doesn’t matter. Time to get this over with. I push back my shoulder, lift my chin, and knock on the door three times, feeling like I might puke at any moment from sheer terror.

There’s a long pause where nothing happens, and I’m a second from running away, when an older woman answers. She’s in her sixties and wearing a simple house dress with rubber gloves.

She frowns out at me, head tilted. “Yes?”

I panic. I’ll admit it. I thought Merrick would let me in himself, but apparently, he’s got hired help. “I’m here to see, uh⁠—”

“Ah, yes, you’re running late.” The woman steps aside and ushers me into the entry hall. She seems like she’s in a hurry. Dark hardwood floors and a glittering chandelier hang above walls covered in abstract art. Spacious and exceedingly expensive. Exactly how I pictured Merrick’s place would be, though more formal. “Right this way, please. He’s not happy that you kept him waiting.” The housekeeper takes me into a sitting room and leaves me there.

I look around. There are some photographs of people I don’t recognize on the mantel. Fancy, uncomfortable furniture. Crystal ashtray. More art on the walls: big, intense slashes of color. I even recognize the piece hanging above a desk.

This is the place. I take a deep breath and blow it out. If I don’t get this over with, I’m going to bail and that would be really, really bad, for two reasons.

First, I don’t want to let my friend down. He’s been a loyal customer and a sympathetic ear for months. Ever since I started working as a bartender at Stove and Smoke, Merrick has been showing up almost nightly for a martini and a chat, and I’m happy to indulge—when he doesn’t have other company, of course. That’s how he heard about my financial situation a couple nights back and ended up making his offer.

And that’s the second reason. I really need the money. Bartending is pretty good, and on a busy night I can make enough money to pay my rent for a month, but that’s not nearly enough.

Here’s the thing about debt.

The word crushing is the perfect description.

“Okay, I can do this.” I turn my back on the French doors and whip off my jacket. I hesitate, not sure what to do with it, and end up draping it over the back of a couch.

Cold air brushes over my skin. My nipples go hard and goosebumps race down my arms, but at least I did it. I conquered my fears.

I’m butt-ass naked.

And standing in a random room.

Part of me is aware that the housekeeper might come back, but I’m past caring at this point. If she sees me naked, whatever.

I need to break the ice, and the only way out is through.

Or in this case, the only way out is to expose myself.

The doors open behind me. I see the flicker of shadows reflected in the glass of a nearby picture. I turn, my mouth open to make some wry comment to Merrick about catching me at an awkward moment, but⁠—

It’s not Merrick.

It’s not his housekeeper, either.

Instead, the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen in my life is standing there staring at me with an expression caught between surprise and curiosity.

I don’t move. He doesn’t either. My jacket is a few feet away. I’m very, very aware of my erect nipples—it’s freaking cold in here—and the way his eyes move down my body.

Like he’s scanning me and taking in every single exposed inch.

He’s tall. Very tall. Thick, dark hair, a black suit that fits his muscular frame like it’s about to start screaming, and tattoos. The inky lines poke out at the edges of his sleeves and collar. He’s got a square jaw, full lips, and piercing blue eyes that rip into me.

If I weren’t totally exposed and feeling wildly vulnerable, I’d probably start drooling over this man.

He’s insanely attractive.

That’s an understatement. I didn’t know humans could look like that in person.

I don’t think the word handsome does him justice; he’s oozing with raw sex charisma.

Every inch of him glows with an inner strength, and he seems to dominate the room with his presence.

It’s the way he holds himself. Straight spine, shoulders back, face composed. One hand is tucked into his left pocket, the other’s pressed into his jacket, like he’s reaching for something.

He keeps staring at me and doesn’t say a word. His surprise and curiosity have changed into something else.

An intense stare.

Not the sort of stare a stranger throws my way on the subway, but something much deeper.

Like he’s assessing me. Like he can’t look away, even if he wanted to.

It’s intoxicating, that sheer, overwhelming attention, especially coming from a man like him.

Which is insanely unnerving, considering I’m wearing only a pair of heels, and he’s big enough that he could stride across this room, grab me, and crush me with one massive palm.

“You are not Natalya,” he says at last.

That breaks the spell.

I lunge forward, grab my jacket, and start pulling it on.

When I look up, he’s holding a gun aimed at my chest.

I open my mouth and I should be screaming, but no noise comes out.

“Who are you?” he asks, sounding shockingly casual for a man pointing a weapon at a naked woman.

“I’m—I’m—my name’s Karine. I thought, I mean, I was looking for Merrick, he invited me to pose for him, and I think this is just some misunderstanding.”

The man doesn’t move. For a bleak, terrible moment, I think he’s going to kill me. A wave of raw, powerful energy wafts off him like the aura around a fire. He’s terrifying and beautiful all at once, like an avenging angel come down from heaven to rip me to pieces with its claws.

Then the gun disappears back into his suit and he relaxes.

“Get dressed,” he says like he’s used to giving commands and expects them to be followed.

“Gladly.” I whip the jacket back on, cheeks burning bright pink. I’m so mortified I could die. “I’m so sorry. I think I have the wrong house or something. I knocked and your housekeeper answered⁠—”

“I am going to have a conversation with Nikkita about carefully vetting any guests before she allows them to enter my home once you’re gone.”

“Right, great, that’s a wonderful idea. But don’t be too hard on poor Nikkita. She seems busy. Again, I am so, so sorry. Honestly, I don’t show up at random houses totally naked all the time, I mean, this would be a first for me.”

His lips raise, and it’s the most sinister and attractive smile I’ve ever seen. “I’d like to say it’s the first for me as well, but that would be a lie.”

“Oh. Right.” If blushing could kill a girl, I’d keel over. That has to be the sexiest single sentence I’ve ever heard in my life. I mean, he’s obviously an arrogant prick and clearly deranged and dangerous, given the whole aiming a gun at me thing, but my god.

There’s something about his voice.

It’s deep and crushing like the sound of an ocean breaking against a sheer cliff face.

I want to hear that voice in my freaking dreams.

“Merrick lives next door.” The man’s eyes glance over at the painting on the wall. “I’m a fan of his work, as it happens.”

“That makes sense. I recognized the painting, and I guess I just thought I was in the right place so I took off my jacket to break the ice, and I’m honestly so embarrassed I could die right now.”

“Nikkita will walk you over to Merrick’s house.” He looks me over one more time. The curiosity is back in his gaze, like he’s wondering if he should come over here and tug off my jacket again.

A very sick, very stupid part of me wants him to.

That’s wrong. I mean, he pointed a freaking gun at me. What kind of guy does that?

But for some reason, the look on his face, mixed with the splendor of his house and this man’s sheer intense sexual attraction makes me totally brainless for him.

I follow him into the hall. When the older woman appears, they speak in Russian, and the housekeeper glares at me like, somehow, I’m the problem.

“It was nice seeing you, Karine,” the man says, and the way he slightly emphasizes seeing makes my knees go weak.

If my nipples weren’t already hard, they’d be cutting glass by now.

“Thanks for not shooting me,” I blurt out.

Nikkita shakes her head like I’ve lost my mind, which is entirely possible, and leads me to the door.

I realize I never got the man’s name.

I look over my shoulder and glimpse him watching me from the hall, shrouded in shadow, looking like sin, death, and sex wrapped up in one terrifying masculine body, and I’m suddenly sure that if I ever come back to this house, I won’t ever leave it again.