You Don't Know Me

By: Georgia Le Carre

‘Cold?’ he asks, looking down at me

‘A little.’

A car is waiting, and the driver, presumably Viktor, is standing beside the open back door. His eyes widen slightly at the sight of me before he blanks them of all expression. I wonder if he has recognized me, but it is extremely unlikely. My father keeps me well out of his world. I thank him and get in while Noah walks around to the other side and slides in beside me.

‘Turn the heating up,’ he tells the driver.

‘Thank you,’ I whisper.

He turns to look at me, his strong cheekbones catching the light from the streetlamps and the look in his eyes makes me lick my lips.


Noah Abramovich

Wicked Game

My eyes drop to her plump lower lip, to the way it glistens enticingly in the darkness. It fucks me up some. I tell myself, stay cool, but excitement is like an electric current in my blood, zipping through my veins. Fuck, I have never known such blind urgency.

I want to grab her and take her there and then. And damn if it won’t feel good.

I clench my jaw and turn away. There’s a jeering voice in my head. Stay firm, Noah. It’s just one fucking night. Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I stare out of the window as the familiar streets rush by. I have done this journey thousands of times, but there is something surreal about this night.

Its name is Tasha Evanoff. Her perfume. Her presence, the creamy whiteness of her soft skin, the innocence in her wide eyes. I am a monster. I can bring her nothing but pain and ruin. Even touching the Princess would be defiling her, and yet, I cannot stop myself.

She is my one weakness. The beloved daughter of the Mafia king is about to become my worst fucking nightmare. I cannot resist her call. I’ve played this out in my fantasies too many times. Just one night. It’s just lust. When the sun comes up it will be over. I won’t chase her. I won’t ruin her life. Just one night.

As the car eats up the miles, every cell in my body heats up, becomes super alert. Like a wolf I can hear her heartbeat, feel the heat coming from her body.

The car comes to a smooth stop. Here we are Noah, you and your fantasy woman. I get out and Viktor rushes to open the door for her. She gets out and looks at me. I thank Viktor and he drives off.

Cold wind drags at her clothes and hair. She hugs herself.

‘My place,’ I say softly.

‘It’s nice,’ she replies without sarcasm. It’s just a six-bedroom Regency town house with high ceilings and tall windows. But modest. Certainly nothing compared to the gold and marble palace she lives in. Russians with money are like Arabs. Flashy. They invest in ostentation.

‘Sure you want to do this?’

She reaches out a hand and, with her thumb and forefinger, picks something from my right cheek. Staring at me she holds it in front of my lips. It is an old Russian superstition: if an eyelash falls out you will receive a gift. My chest feels tight. My mother used to do this to me, take the eyelash, and let me blow it away while making a wish.

I blow. Strands of her blonde hair lift away from her neck.

She blinks. ‘Did you make a wish?’

I nod. How surprised she would be if she knew what I wished for. How surprised I am at my fucking wish. None of the wishes I made when my mother held the eyelash ever came true. There is absolutely no way this one is going to either.

We walk up the steps and I put the key in my door. I close the door and watch her look at her surroundings.

‘Want a drink?’ I offer.

‘If you’ll have one too?’

I walk to the first reception room and switch on the light.

She laughs, a breathless sound. ‘Wow, it’s beautiful.’

I look at the decor as if for the first time. Through her eyes. I never notice it anymore. I follow her eyes as she takes in the pale ice cream colors on the walls, the charcoal grey floor, and the dark silk curtains. There are red velvet cushions on the white fainting couch. She moves deeper into the room to stand on the soft-lilac shag carpet.

‘I never would have imagined you lived in a house like this.’

I shrug casually. This is my house, but it is not a home. I don’t really live here. In fact, I hardly come. Often I crash in the apartment above my restaurant. ‘I didn’t actually decorate it. I hired someone.’

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