Page 33 of Nothing More

Here was something else he hadn’t said to her: “I know you.”

He didn’t – or, he hadn’t, on the day he’d met her at the Central Park Ritz-Carlton, when her G&T glass had clicked against her teeth she was so nervous. Even then, pale and wan, Ian half-hiding her against the window, she whipped around and sidestepped from his shadow so she could glare at the Dogs who’d come. Taken their measure. Since, he thought he’d learned to read her well; that he knew who she pretended to be at the agency, in front of all the people who depended upon her, in front of her own sister, even…and who she really was. The her that had trouble sleeping and wondered if all that she’d done had been worth it.

But that was all recent. If he’d saidI know you, he would have meantI used to stare at you. That day in the Ritz had been like seeing a ghost, as shocking as if he’d come face-to-face with Andrei again.

When he was fourteen, and still shadowing Misha most of the time, the Obshchak would come around, off-the-clock, already half-drunk, on the prowl for trouble; it hadn’t mattered what sort: drinking, gambling, fighting, fucking. A light spot of murder. They were up for anything, and always snatching him by the back of the collar and dragging him along, despite the pleading looks he’d sent Misha…at first. “Little dog!” they’d called him, and oh the irony years later, when he patched into the Dogs. He was full of promise, Andrei’s favorite, and already immune to bloodshed. They wanted him for their ranks, and so they took him whoring, and gambling, and fighting.

There’d been a bar they favored, a big, sprawling place with red-topped billiards tables and half-price drinks on Thursdays. The police had never ventured inside, and all manner of sins played out in its shadowy booths. Toly had participated when he felt he had to, in order to earn their respect, but eventually, when they’d grown too drunk to care, he would nick a bottle from behind the bar and go up on the roof. The cold had cooled the sweat on his neck, and helped to clear his head. He’d sat on top of an air conditioning box, and watched the city amidst the ravens with their heads tucked under their wings.

There was a billboard up there, at least eighty feet wide, lit from below so that it glowed against the smudgy black of the sky. A perfume ad, a tiny Union Jack down in the corner along with the name of the English company that produced it. The model was English, too, stretched out on her stomach, propped on her elbow, hair a dark spill over one shoulder, lips half-hidden in her hand so she looked coy, like she was keeping a secret. Every model in every ad bore smooth skin, and shining hair; all of them were beautiful in their own ways…but this one. Hereyes. The most vivid, arresting blue he’d ever seen, bright as jewels, clear as clean water. He’d sat there sipping vodka, feeling sorry for himself, allowing himself the cliché of thinking he could drown in those eyes.

Raven. It had been Raven.

I know you, he could have told her.When I was fifteen, I shoved a hand down my pants and touched myself while I stared at a billboard of you.

And then, a half-hour ago, he’d touched her for real. Laid a hand on her back, and even through her coat and dress, he’d felt as if he’d overstepped; had felt a swell of giddiness to have finally made physical contact with the woman who’d been the nameless object of his teenage fantasies.

He was older now, and doubtless far more experienced than her in every way, but he’d felt a thrill all the same. A thrill that had sharpened his hostility toward Greg Ingles…and led him to show far too much temper to Raven.

He was an idiot.

And wanted to be more of one.

Not that he’d have the chance, since she didn’t seem to be speaking to him, now.

They made their way to the school, and he shadowed Raven – silently – to the vestibule to pick up Cassandra…who looked at him, her eyes widening, and said, “Whoa.”

It was only then that he realized, in their rush to leave, in his fit of anger and jealousy, that he’d forgotten to stop by the changing room and pick up his street clothes. He still wore that awful blue suit. He didn’t have his jacket either. The cold was bearable for someone who’d grown up in Moscow, but he would have liked the jacket’s camouflage.

Raven looked at him, then, lips thinning, nostrils flaring on an annoyed inhale. But she turned away again without speaking. “Do you have everything, Cass?”

From there it was back into the Rover, where Raven made phone calls on their trip to the apartment. He’d thought she might instruct the driver to head back to the office, but she said, “Home, please.” Asking her why she was taking the rest of the day off would meanspeakingsome more, and that had already bitten him in the ass today.

Bennet was waiting for them at the door to the apartment.

“Afternoon, ma’am,” he greeted Raven warmly, and the dumb bastard even bowed at her.

“Afternoon, Bennet,” Raven said crisply, and breezed past him through the open door into the entryway.

“Your groceries were just delivered,” he said. “Hello, Miss Cassie.”

“Hi, Bennet. Did they remember the biscuits this time?”

“The Famous Amos? Oh, yeah. A whole case of it.”

Raventsked as she shed her coat. “If you’re going to eat sweets, Cass, there are better quality brands.”

“Ilikethe Famous Amos. I like that they’re little.”

Toly shut the door behind them all and threw the three locks. Slid the chain home with a decisivesnick. A small sound, but one that drew Raven’s attention nonetheless. Briefly, coldly. Somehow, her mouth tightened further, and she turned away to hang up her coat in one of the closets.

“See about ordering Toly some clothes,” she said over her shoulder, as she headed for the kitchen, picking the mail up off the foyer table as she went. “If he sits around in that suit all night, he’ll ruin it.”

Bennet – already in the process of looking Toly up and down, lips pursed in a silent whistle – lifted his brows up into his receding hairline. “That’s some suit,” he murmured. “I hardly recognized you.”

“Donotorder me clothes,” Toly said, scowling. He’d worked around the idea of wearing her suits with the thought that they were a work uniform, a requirement of his temporary employer. But if he wouldn’t eat the bagels and sandwiches on her cart for fear of hospitality, like hell was he letting her dress him up like a doll here at her house.

“Do, please,” Raven called, nearly sing-song. “I’ll give you my card. Instacart can bring him something from Target.”