Page 221 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)
“She isnotgoing to go for you. Even if she did, her father wouldn’t. The Boss will literally murder you with his bare hands if you so much as breathe wrong near her.”
“Please. I don’t have a death wish,” Vincent said. “I just want to talk to her because I lent her the latest Isabella Valencia book and I want it back.”
My brother didnotread thrillers. “You don’t own…” My eyes narrowed. “Wait. You meanmyIsabella Valencia book? The one I haven’t read yet? I was looking all over for it the other day!”
Vincent shrugged, having the grace to look sheepish.
Unbelievable. This was like the Adele vinyl situationall over again.
“Anyway, I’m not interested in her like that,” he said. “I admit, I was intrigued when I first met her, but she’s annoying.”
“Because she’s the one woman not related to you who doesn’t fall all over you? And Carina doesn’t count. She’s basically your de facto sister.”
“No. It’s because she’s annoying.”
“You used to think Asher was annoying, and now you’re best friends.”
Vincent’s mouth curled. “Best friends is pushing it. We tolerate each other.”
“I’m standing right here,” Asher interjected. “But he’s right. We tolerate each other for the team and foryou. That’s it.”
“Uh-huh.” They tolerated each other so much they were going to watch the upcoming Nate Reynolds moviewithout me, but whatever. I wasn’t bitter or anything. “Sure. Well, tolerate each other while I say hi to Brooklyn—alone.”
I left them to bicker with each other while I joined my friend next to one of the Picassos. The other staff member had left, leaving her by herself.
“I don’t know how you do it,” she said. She must’ve been watching my interaction with Asher and Vincent. “Dealing with those two together is like dealing with children.”
“Tell me about it.” I hugged her hello. “You look great.”
“So do you.” Brooklyn grinned. “It’s too bad Carina couldn’t come. This place is wild. Did you know there’s a shooting range in the back garden?”
“No. How didyouknow that?”
“People tell me things.” She shrugged. Her gaze coasted over my shoulder, and her eyes widened—with appreciation or apprehension, I couldn’t tell. “Speaking of people…look who’s here.”
I turned as the lively chatter in the foyer faded into silence and the only sound was the clack of shoes against marble.
He emerged from the shadows of another room and stopped at the edge of the crowd. I recognized him from my internet sleuthing immediately.
Vuk Markovic.
I thought his photos were intimidating, but they didn’t do him justice. In person, he was downright terrifying. It wasn’t his size or the vicious scar bisecting his face into two icy halves. It wasn’t the unsmiling mouth, the burn marks around his throat, or those pale blue, almost colorless eyes.
It was the sense of danger he emitted, like a predator dressed in sheep’s clothing. Even in a custom ten-thousand-pound tux, he didn’t look like a CEO. He looked like someone who would calmly and efficiently dismember you with his bare hands if you crossed him.
A chill skittered down my spine when those unsettling eyes brushed over me, but they didn’t pause. They simply skimmed over me like I didn’t exist.
He scanned the room without a hint of emotion. It seemed like he was searching for someone, but whoever it was must not have been there because his mouth thinned with displeasure.
An older woman came up beside him and whispered something in his ear. He nodded and walked toward the Boss, breaking the spell of silence that had descended upon his arrival.
The room released a collectively held breath, and chatter picked up again.
“I guess he’s not going to give a thank-you speech,” I said wryly.
“He’s hot.”
My head snapped toward her. “Who?Markovic?”