Иностранец. Становление. Игорь Шелег

usually preferred his women a little less obvious. Actually, she wasn’t just gorgeous. She was absolutely stunning.

      His lips twitched in response to her compliment while another body part responded in a similar fashion to her sleek and sensuous body. “Thank you,” he said. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

      He’d forgotten how delightfully forward American women could be. He braced his arms against the boat’s railing, watching the woman, who continued to boldly stare, hip cocked to one side, elbow of one arm resting in her palm, the crystal tumbler of Scotch held near her lips. Her gaze devoured his six-and-a-half-foot, muscled, toffee-colored frame.

      “Don’t worry, honey. I’m just taking in the view. I have no intension of touching the merchandise,” the woman said. “At least not yet.” She smiled again, a suggestive movement of her glistening maroon lips.

      “Are you so sure you could handle me?” Seven teased.

      She looked him over again, brown eyes sparkling, hair swept up into an elegant pompadour. “I could handle two of you, honey.”

      Seven was absolutely tempted to challenge the woman on her boast. The longer he looked down at her statuesque form, with its bold swath of hair and the white silk blouse fluttering in the breeze over her lace-cupped breasts, the more his intrigue and interest grew. But... “Maybe I’ll give you the chance to prove it another time,” he said. “I have a twin.”

      The woman laughed, a husky gurgle of sound, and lifted her glass to him in salute. Then she turned on her high heels, treating him to a glimpse of her small but shapely behind in the tight jeans, and strutted down the walkway of the back lawn toward the mansion, where another party was going strong. Seven watched her go with regret, fighting the unfamiliar urge to rush after her and find out more about that heavily implied stamina of hers. He’d never been one for casual hookups, but something about that woman made him want to change his mind.

      Seven stood on the deck of the yacht for a moment longer, feeling the minute movements of the Dirty Diana as she swayed in the dock, as much from the gentle undulations of Biscayne Bay as from the activities of the over two dozen partiers on board.

      Beautiful women pranced around on the deck in their high heels. Well-dressed men—most with cigars in hand—stalked after them. Everyone was drinking and partying hard to Drake pounding from the speakers, their laughter high and bright. The hors d’oeuvres were plentiful and provided by uniformed waiters making regular trips between the mansion and boat. And at the center of it all stood Marcus Stanfield, Seven’s host and recent acquaintance.

      The billionaire playboy’s generosity had come as a surprise to Seven, but he knew well enough from experience the whims and whimsies of the rich. He wouldn’t let himself get too used to Marcus’s hospitality. As quickly as it had been given, it could be taken away.

      But at least Marcus’s spur-of-the-moment generosity had brought Seven from the arid deserts of Dubai to a much more appealing climate. When Marcus had come to Seven’s last solo show in the Arabian city, he had taken a liking to Seven’s work, immediately buying two pieces and arranging to have them shipped to Miami. His attention brought Seven to the notice of a few others at the opening, including a B-list British actress whose pants Marcus was trying to get into.

      The actress later hosted a dinner party for Seven at her home, where he and Marcus ended up talking for most of the night. Toward the end of the party, Marcus declared that he hadn’t met anyone as interesting as Seven in a long time, and invited the artist to come with him to Miami as his guest. Seven, who had already planned on leaving Dubai, readily accepted the invitation.

      Miami was his kind of town. Although he was visiting for only a short while, he could see himself settling down in a place like this. And not just for the abundance of beautiful women. It was the water, the international flavor of the city, the way certain sections reminded him of Jamaica—of Kingston, where his parents had moved from when he was a child. He was tired of living out of a suitcase, going wherever his work took him.

      In the circle of hangers-on and admirers, Marcus caught Seven’s eye and grinned, pointing with his glass of champagne to the two girls hanging off his arms. Do you want some of this? his look asked. Seven shook his head and smiled.

      “No, thanks, man. Enjoy it.”

      The Dubai trip had worn him out. He’d spent almost two years there, finishing up the steel sculpture commissioned by the Bank of Arab Emirates. It was a prestigious commission. A well-paying one. If he wanted to, he could stop working for another two years and still live in the style to which he’d grown accustomed. But Seven liked working too much. Not to mention it was good to keep working while people still knew his name and were willing to pay exorbitant sums of money for something that came from his sweat and two hands.

      In many ways, his career had been pure luck. He was lucky to have this life of his. Lucky Seven, as his mother called him. Her seventh child, the firstborn of the twins, her only children to survive past birth.

      As Seven watched, one of the women from the pack surrounding Marcus separated herself and came toward him. She was short, but her stilettos gave her the much-needed height, helping to make her seem more grown-up than she actually was. Her rounded cheeks and the acne-dotted skin Seven could still see under her heavy makeup gave away her age. He would eat his welding helmet if she was even twenty-one. At thirty-five, he was far too old to be playing with children.

      “What you doing out here by yourself, handsome?”

      The girl tottered close, the hem of her cream-colored dress fluttering around her thighs, threatening to expose her backside. Seven vaguely remembered her from a few hours ago, when Marcus had made the introductions on the yacht. This one was filthy rich, an admitted art groupie who’d slipped her number in Seven’s pocket once the introductions had been made.

      She was pretty and bold, but instead of taking her to his bed, Seven wanted to clean the makeup off her face and return her to her parents.

      “I’m checking out the view,” Seven said with a smile.

      The girl came even closer, sipping her nearly empty glass of champagne. She touched his arm, then playfully squeezed his biceps. “Yeah, me, too. And the view from where I stand is really hot.” Her breath smelled like champagne and strawberries as she leaned against the railing toward him.

      After the woman in the backyard, this girl seemed too self-conscious, a flashy beauty without the confidence to back it up. Seven gave the girl his most charming smile and touched her arm, saying without a word she was beautiful, but tonight wasn’t the night. Her smile faltered. She clutched at the glass of champagne like a lifeline. A girl like this wasn’t used to being refused anything.

      “A gorgeous woman like you deserves better company than me,” he said. “My head is in a whole different place tonight.” He squeezed her waist and, before she could say anything else, left her in search of solitude.

      Seven felt her bemused eyes on his back as he walked away, but did not turn around. As he gripped the railing to get off the yacht, Marcus swam out of his crowd of admirers to Seven’s side.

      “You having a good time, man?”

      “You know I am.” Seven slapped his host on the back.

      “Good. I don’t want you to get too bored.” Marcus grinned as if that was an impossibility. He shoved a full glass of Scotch into Seven’s hand. “Here. To make the party even better.”

      “If things get slow for me here, I can always head back down to the house. The action down there looks hot.”

      Hip-hop blared from the outdoor speakers on the back lawn of the mansion, while barely dressed women leaned from the balconies or danced suggestively to the music. Some had jumped into the pool in their party clothes, while others had simply stripped, inviting anyone else to join them with come-hither looks over their wet shoulders.

      “Good, good. And don’t forget you can stay here as long as you like. My place is your place. And everything in it.” He inclined his head to encompass the