Obsession: (Billionaire Venture Capitalist #5) A Billionaire Russian Mob Romance Page 11

  All I can see as they talk are dollar signs. If my accounts weren’t frozen, it wouldn’t even faze me, but knowing I’m being forced to borrow against future earnings worries me. What if, in the end, they decide this is too much and they need to let me go?

  Jesus Christ, Ethan, what were you thinking when you decided to get in bed with this Dimitri guy?

  “Cynthia,” Dillon says, grabbing my attention, “if you need to visit any clients, let’s talk about it first. One of us can go with you, and we can send Jim’s team out first to run any interference.”

  “Guys, stop. This is getting out of control. They’re just trying to intimidate me. Once they realize I don’t know anything, they’re going to leave me alone. My deposition’s the day after tomorrow. I don’t want to upset you for throwing things off-kilter around here.”

  “No one is upset. It’s great if this could be over on Thursday, but in the meantime, you aren’t to be alone. We don’t want anything to happen to you. You’re entirely too important to us,” Sara shares.

  I’ve lost my appetite, pushing the rest of my burrito away. “Thank you. I just don’t want to be a problem for anyone.”

  Emerson pats my hand. “Please don’t worry about it. Sara’s right. We want you to be safe.”

  Marci arrives midday, and we go through the questions again. She digs deeper each time into what I may or may not know, and it’s surprising how much I do know. It’s certainly going to create some problems in the future.

  I spend the day working, not realizing what time it is until a large linebacker knocks on my door. “Miss Hathaway, are you ready to go?” I look up and see it’s dark outside. Not dusk, but pitch-black with a sprinkle of city lights illuminating the skyline. “Your boyfriend’s on his way up to drive with you and your detail home.”

  It’s useless to argue that Todd’s not my boyfriend. “I’ll be ready to go in a few minutes.” I shut everything down and begin packing my things.

  Todd walks in and my heart skips a beat. He’s so damn hot. I’m pretty sure he was messing with me earlier to get my mind off my mess, but that kind of flirting makes my panties wet. I wouldn’t mind a mindless romp in the bed, or the couch, the kitchen floor, or anywhere else with him. “Hi. How was your day?”

  I turn and point to my ass. “Does it look any bigger? I feel like it grew while I sat on it all day.”

  He grins and winks at me. “I think your ass is perfect.”

  I roll my eyes. “I know you’re just trying to distract me.”

  “Is it working?”

  “Well, I did replay your comments from this morning several times today.”

  “So did I.” He takes my messenger bag with my computer from me. “What sounds good to order for dinner tonight? Chinese? Pizza? Steaks?”

  “I should eat a salad.”

  “Fine with me if that’s what you want. But I’m serious when I tell you your ass is positively perfect. Don’t go on any silly diet. Enjoy yourself.”

  “Okay, how about a meat-lovers pizza and a salad?”

  “Deal.”

  We climb into the car; this time I’m between linebacker and Todd. He dials up our favorite pizza place and orders four meat-lovers pizzas and a salad.

  “You’re pretty hungry.”

  “I told the guys downstairs that I’d order pizza for them, too.”

  I feel stupid. It didn’t even occur to me that I should order them some dinner.

  “It’s good to be nice to them. They’re the ones trying to protect you.”

  “You’re right. I’m not thinking clearly. I’m just so overwhelmed by everything.”

  “That’s what I’m here for. Did you get any work done today?”

  “After getting in late, enduring a partner’s meeting about my situation, then meetings with my lawyer and everyone checking on me, I had less than two hours to get any real work done. And I just don’t have any energy left to take care of my work tonight either.”

  “You need to get some rest. After dinner, we’ll get to bed early.”

  Chapter SIXTEEN

  Todd

  While we wait for our dinner to arrive, she stands there with a hollow look in her eyes. I can tell she’s exhausted. “Why don’t you go get changed. Can I pour you a drink?”

  She shakes her head as she walks to our bedroom. Yes, it’s our bedroom. There’s something satisfying in calling it that. With the women I’ve dated before, the thought of them referring to a bed we may share as “ours” would’ve had me running for the hills, but now it makes me pause.

  I’m caught thinking about that until she returns wearing one of my Yankees T-shirts. She wears dresses shorter than the T-shirt, but I have to admit she looks amazingly sexy in it. She’s washed her face and looks a little more refreshed. God, she’s beautiful. I was serious when I told her I’d be thinking of her today in her sexy bra and thong. I should’ve left her to change in peace, but spending the night with her snuggled up close to me and keeping my hands to myself was a true feat of my honor. And then to watch her anxiety increase in the morning, I was hoping to distract her.

  Getting involved with her is shitting where I eat. It would be a major mistake. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to. No, I want to bury my head between those beautiful tits and those creamy white thighs for weeks, months. But I like my new place, and my only option if things went south would be to sell and find somewhere else to live. Plus, I’d lose all my new friends. No doubt about that.

  The pizza arrives, and I deliver three pies to the FBI agents downstairs. They’re thrilled for something to eat. I look around at the computer screens they’ve set up in her living room—three 32-inch screens with multiple camera views covering the building, garage, elevators, and stairs. Not much will get by them.

  “How does this not put you to sleep?” I ask the guy who’s sitting in the chair.

  “You work in finance, right?”

  I’m not sure where he’s going with this, but I answer, “I do.”

  “Well, you look at numbers all day. How does that not put you to sleep?” He snickers and, with his mouth full of a meat-lovers pizza slice, gives me a thank-you bob with his head.

  I suppose he’s right—to each their own. The smell’s making me hungry, so I make sure they’re all set up and then head back to my own apartment. Cynthia has set the table and got everything ready for us to eat dinner.

  She is struggling to keep her eyes open and has taken one bite of her pizza. “You really should go to bed,” I tell her.

  “I’m sorry I’m not very good company tonight.”

  “I can see you’re exhausted. Don’t worry about it.”

  She takes a few bites of the salad and hardly touches her slice. Her eyelids are heavy, and I’m beginning to feel selfish for keeping her up. I stand and reach for her hand, leading her back to the bedroom and I tuck her into bed. It hits me that I’ve not had a lot of sleep and am tired too. I clean up and pack away the leftovers, then decide I can read a bit before I fall asleep.

  When I walk into the bedroom, I see her hair splayed over the pillow, her eyes closed, and her breathing rhythmic. She looks so peaceful—the crinkle between her eyes is gone, and she almost has a smile. I drop my pants and crawl into bed next to her, and with the light on low, I begin to read. She almost immediately wraps her arms around my torso and whimpers softly, her soft breasts pushing into me. I want so much to play with her; my dick is hard as a baseball bat.

  I turn the light off and sit in the dark, thinking about her and trying to rationalize why I think changing our dynamic’s a bad thing.

  Cynthia invaded my dreams last night. I dreamed of her taking me in her mouth and me fucking her from behind while pulling her hair. No wonder when my alarm sounds at four, my cock is still hard. She is still wrapped around me and me around her. I’ve never slept in a bed platonically like this before. I need to go for a run; I have too much pent-up energy I need to take care of.

  It may be early when I arrive at the of
fice a while later, but I’m still not the first here.

  “Man, you look wound tight this morning,” Thomas observes.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just that you look like you’ve had about three cups of coffee too many. How’s your girlfriend?”

  “She’s not my girlfriend, but she’s fine,” I emphasize.

  “Maybe you need to just fuck her and get it out of your system. It may calm you down a bit. It’s not good for any man to go too long without sex. That’s how guys become serial killers.”

  “Get the fuck out of my office, man. Worry about yourself and go make some money for the company.”

  I’m sure he’s right, but jeez, this is not the time to make my move on Cynthia.

  I call out to him before he reaches the door. “Hey, before you go, my place is finally done and ready for guests. Why don’t you and the guys join me with your girlfriends Saturday night? You can meet my neighbor, and we can hang out. Nothing formal. I’ll order in some food, and we can drink that bottle of thirty-year-old scotch Angus gave us to celebrate the opening of the new office.”

  “That alone will entice the guys to come. Sure, why not? What time?”

  “Dinner will be served at eight, so be there before that.”

  I text CeCe, who points me to a caterer, and I get it all set up. I hope Cynthia doesn’t mind. I’d like for her to meet the guys I brought with me to San Francisco, and maybe this will be a good distraction for her.

  Chapter SEVENTEEN

  Cynthia

  Thursday morning arrives quickly. I didn’t sleep well last night, worrying about how this is going to end. I’m sure once these Russians realize I don’t know anything, they’ll leave me alone and I can go back to my quiet life. Maybe the FBI will finally free up my finances.

  Jim and two members of his team pick me up from Todd’s apartment and take me to the federal courthouse. We’re led to a conference room in a dark corner of the building with no windows, with a huge table that can accommodate twenty people. Jim and his team remain outside, and Marci and I sit on our side of the table, listening to the snap and crackle of the fluorescent lighting while we wait for their arrival.

  “Don’t worry,” Marci assures me, patting my arm. “You’re going to do great.”

  The simple gesture makes my heart slow to a somewhat normal beat, but that doesn’t last long.

  The door finally opens and a parade of seven people files into the room. They’re all dressed in what seems to be the uniform for the US attorney’s office regardless of sex—dark pantsuit with a white pressed dress shirt and comfortable shoes. Men wear ties, and the women have their collars open. The men’s hair is short, and the women all have their hair either short or up in a bun. There’s also a stenographer as well as a video camera operator with them.

  Marci and I stand while everyone takes their seats. An extremely handsome gentleman in his midthirties reaches out and introduces himself. “Hi, I’m Walker Clifton.”

  Marci nods. “Walker.”

  The butterflies in my stomach make me question my breakfast choice. I say a silent prayer that it doesn’t revisit while rubbing my thumb across my knuckle. I’m nervous, knowing the FBI and private security teams hinge on how this all plays out.

  “Nice to meet you,” I say shyly.

  He motions for us to take our seats. He introduces us to the team in the room and then walks us through his agenda. “You received our list of questions. Anything you’d like to discuss before we get started?”

  “I reserve the right to stop the questioning at any time,” Marci responds.

  He nods. “We’re not trying to be adversarial, just trying to build our case.”

  I’m sworn in, the camera focuses on me, and the questions begin.

  “Let’s start easy,” Walker suggests. “Tell me your name and address. And please spell your name for the stenographer.”

  Everyone is staring at me, and I get the worst case of stage fright. “Umm… my name is Cynthia Jean Hathaway. That’s Cynthia with a ‘Y’ and Hathaway is spelled H-A-T-T… I mean only one T… A-W-A-Y.”

  Marci leans over. “Try again.”

  I’m sure my cheeks are flaming. “Oh good grief. I’m sorry. I’ve only been spelling my name since I was four years old.”

  Walker chuckles. “Let’s start again, and please spell both your first and last name.”

  I do what he says, and then the real questions begin. It’s a long and arduous morning walking through how I came to work for BrightStar, then explaining my relationship with Ethan Sommers and my role within the company. Much of it I already shared during my initial conversation or can be found on our website and my LinkedIn profile. It’s nothing earth-shattering.

  When the time comes to break for lunch, we agree to be back in two hours. Marci and I walk across the street and down an alley to an out-of-the-way café. I can see my security team not too far away. They sort of blend in, but not really.

  As we walk, she warns, “There’re ears everywhere we go in this part of town. We’ll debrief later at my office. You did a good job this morning, but the questions will most likely increase in difficulty throughout the afternoon, and this could easily move into tomorrow.”

  “I don’t have anything to share.”

  “I understand. Continue to be patient with the repeated questions and keep doing what you’re doing.”

  The sun’s shining, and it’s a beautiful day in San Francisco. We sit outside at the little café, taking in the sun and the break. Marci studies her iPhone while I can’t bring myself to look at mine. I don’t want to know how much work I’m missing. I do enjoy not talking for a little while, at the very least.

  When our food arrives, we make polite conversation.

  “Any trips coming up?” Marci asks.

  I shake my head. “Not right now. If I can get through this, then I can think about taking a vacation. Honestly though, I’m not sure I’ll be able to afford one.”

  “What about that cute guy who keeps showing up?”

  “Todd?” I turn a shade of crimson as I remember his strong arms holding me last night.

  She nods.

  “He’s only a friend.”

  Her eyes light up. “Well, if you decide you don’t want him, let me know. I’d be happy to take him off your hands. He’s pretty cute.”

  The hair on the back of my neck stands on end, and I note a twinkle in her eyes. She’s testing me, and that’s okay. I can admit to liking him, but it’s just not a good idea to get involved at this point.

  “I know he is, and be sure he knows he is too, but he’s also my neighbor. It’s not a good thing to date your neighbors if your only option when it goes south is to sell.”

  “I get that, but sometimes it’s nice to have the release.”

  “No doubt.”

  Too distracted to want to have this conversation, I keep thinking about what Walker Clifton has asked already and what questions are coming up. So far, we’ve only covered the first five of the one hundred they sent us.

  I poke at my salad and move it around the plate. I can’t taste anything, and my heart races as I pick at a freckle on my arm until it bleeds.

  Marci reaches across the table and gives my arm a gentle squeeze. “Please don’t work yourself up. You’re doing great. I know this is nerve-racking, but you’re looking like a rock star. Don’t let Walker Clifton into your head—or into your bed.”

  I laugh, which helps to relieve my stress. “Thanks. I take it Walker Clifton has made it into your bed?”

  “Oh no. He has way too many political aspirations to mess with a lowly white-collar criminal defense attorney.”

  “You’re not lowly. I promise. He’d be lucky if you’d go out with him.”

  “You’re very sweet. He probably has a small penis anyway.”

  I almost shoot water out my nose.

  She grins widely, knowing she’s managed to take my nervousness away—at least for a short time. “Let’s
get you back.”

  As the afternoon progresses, the questions increase in difficulty and the answers become more complex. I’m regularly asked about Dimitri Kuznetsov and if I’d met him. I begin to question it myself when they ask about events and parties they tell me we both attended. I would’ve sworn I’d never met him, but as we talk about different events, maybe I did. He certainly didn’t make an impression on me if that was the case. I don’t recall ever being introduced to him.

  When I’m asked about my matchme.com dates, Marci starts to object. Walker reminds her, “Marci, this isn’t a courtroom. We can ask all sorts of questions. You’ll understand in a moment why we’re asking.”

  She holds her hands up in mock surrender.

  Walker turns back to me. “Miss Hathaway, tell me about your date from matchme.com with Jeffery Bratva.”

  I wasn’t prepared for this and look at Marci, panicked. She nods, giving me permission to continue. “I really can’t recall who he is.”

  Marci interrupts, “Hold on Walker. You didn’t send his name over in your questions.”

  “I’m aware of that, this is a line of questioning we decided today to ask,” Walker responds.

  “Today? I don’t think so,” Marci mutters.

  “How many dates did you have from matchme.com?”

  I don’t want to be wrong, so I answer honestly. “I can’t recall. None of them were that memorable, because the dates tended to be so bad I’ve chosen to forget them.”

  He shows me a photograph that’s a few months old, me sitting with a man in his mid to late thirties, with an okay build, dressed in a track suit, with dark hair, and designer sunglasses. “Now do you remember Jeffery Bratva?”

  “I remember this particular date. I got a text from Greer announcing a party at her house and left abruptly. It was the perfect excuse, since he spent the date talking about himself, was luxury obsessed, and made a joke about something ludicrous.”