Page 32 of Nothing More

“He fancies me, you sour prick. That’s as good as currency in the business world. I flirted. I flirted a little, to encourage him to keep coming ‘round, because if he’s a bloody criminal or sex-trafficker or pervert or what-the-fuck-ever, I want an early warning.”

When he kept silent, still glaring, suit coat twitching as his muscles flexed beneath it, she continued: “Do you understand that? If I rebuke him, and make him feel small and ugly, and he is a criminal, sex-trafficking pervert, I’ll only have angered him, so that I wake up one morning in the back of a white van, trussed up like a Christmas goose and halfway to a Thailand whorehouse. Like plays no part in it. Sometimes, the smartest thing you can do with a potentially-dangerous man is bat your lashes at him.”

It was true, and not merely in this instance, but in every avenue of business. She hadn’t slept her way to the top – thanks to her mother paving the way ahead of her, she’d always had at least a little bit of influence in the modeling world, and hadn’t needed to debase herself – but too many times she’d been forced to smile, or laugh, or lay her hand on a jacket sleeve and tilt her head to a girlish angle. It set men at ease; loosened their tongues and wallets. She was a bitch by nature, and she’d had to fight that instinct every step of her professional journey.

It was horribly sad to say it aloud; to acknowledge it. Left her queasy and more than a little ashamed.

Toly finally released his hair; let his hand drop to his waist, thumb hooking in his belt. He tipped his head back a fraction, so the harsh overhead lights painted his brows, cheekbones, point of his chin, apple of his throat. A photographer would have elbowed her out of the way to capture that moment on film. Cassandra might have turned into a heart-eyed cartoon character, swaying and melting.

He said, “He’s not as dangerous as me.”

Raven’s racing thoughts screeched to a halt. Her mind went blank, and stayed that way.

He’s not as dangerous as me.

What did…

How was she…

Did he…?

A soft ding and a faint lurch signaled the elevator’s arrival at the parking garage level.

She turned to face the door, and folded her arms, and just…waited. Watched the doors glide open, and then stepped off. Managed a nod for her driver, who stood ready, and then led the way out into the garage to the Rover. She murmured a thanks when he held the rear door, and climbed in to find the leather seats warmed, the heater purring. Stared at the headrest in front of her as Toly slid into the front passenger seat. The bristled, gelled ends of his hair fell through the gap between seat and headrest, and the leather squeaked as he braced his shoulders back against it, leaning on the center console with one elbow.

He’s not as dangerous as me.

What the hell does that mean?she thought but couldn’t say, as the driver joined them and put the car in gear.Are youthreateningme? Are youjealous? Wish I was batting my lashes atyou?

She couldn’t ask – wouldn’t deign to ask – for clarification. She tore her gaze from what she could see of him and looked instead through the window. Heavy clouds had rolled in from the west, lumpy like old quilts between the tops of buildings.

“Looks like it might snow,” her driver remarked, and went unanswered.

~*~

One of Andrei’s favorite things about Toly was that he kept mostly silent. “I like you,” he’d said, once, early on. He’d turned to the rest of the men standing in a loose knot around him and said, louder, “I like him. He knows how to keep his mouth shut.” He’d continued to keep it shut: no outbursts, no loose lips, no gossip, no secrets spilled. He didn’t like the sound of his own voice, the way some of the men did; didn’t annoy anyone with useless chatter. He’d betrayed his Pakhan, abandoned his bratva, turned traitor and would forever carry a price on his head…but he’d not done it with words. Never overstepped verbally.

Until this afternoon.

He was a little dizzy over it.

He knew his face, knew that it was inscrutable, and that his his posture and gestures were hard for people to read as well. He never gave too much away. He got under Raven’s skin, he knew, just like he knew that, despite the shame she probably felt about it, she wanted him. At least a little; in certain moments.

But he’d given nothing away.

Had told her nothing.

Until his blowup in the office today.

He didn’t like Greg Ingles. Hated him, even, and didn’t trust him – not surprising, given he trusted no one. But he’d been unprepared for his visceral, kneejerk reaction to Greg’s overtures to Raven. That big-smile, corporate-cold, rich-boy attempt at charm. It had been shockingly easy, when he’d stood over her, his head angled down and hers angled up, to envision the gap closing between them, a chaste and uncertain kiss. Awkward smiles that spoke of an eagerness to try. Cut to a dark restaurant, white tablecloths, red wine in deep-bellied glasses. Tiny portions, tinier bites, a black credit card slid to the waiter and “this is me,” “can I walk you up?”

They would look pretty together: the ethereally beautiful, untouchable woman out of everyone’s league, the solid, handsome man who looked as if his parents had been matched up like Thoroughbreds, mated for genetics rather than love; handsome, yes, but not so handsome as to outshine her. No one could outshine Raven. He could see their cool smiles in the glossy pages of some society rag, where they’d posed in eveningwear at a ball somewhere, glittering diamonds and expressions that were content, but not happy.

He hadn’t thought he was bitter.

But then he’d touched her in a proprietary way, and he’d spoken, spilled his harsh accent out onto the Persian carpet and watched Greg Ingles lift his brows in surprise. His was not the half-British accent of a rich Russian who’d studied English in the UK, but the guttural work of Duolingo before bed each night, cheap dictionaries, and osmosis on the streets. He might as well have said, “I’m a Moscow street urchin, and if you kiss this woman, I’ll cut your balls off with my dullest knife.”

He hadn’t said to Raven, “I think you’d unclench a little and stop killing your stomach with coffee if I bent you over that big marble island in your kitchen.”