Page 7 of Nothing More

The problem was, she’d never gotten hot over one of her brothers’ stupid brothers, and she would not break that perfect streak now, especially not over a half-mute Russian with an attitude problem who was ten years her junior. Shewould not.

She blinked again, tried to do something about whatever her face was doing – God, please don’t let her begawkingat the man – and only then registered his initial comment.

She frowned. “I’m sorry, what? Hypocrite?I’m a hypocrite?”

In that moment, she learned that he could lift one brow at a time, too, just as she could. It only went up the barest fraction, but on his otherwise impassive face, the effect was dramatic. He did the brow, and then looked pointedly at her spilled coffee, and let his gaze slide toward the array of muffins, bagels, pastries, and hard-boiled eggs, all of which would be swapped out for lunch things at the appropriate time.

His gaze returned, brow still elevated. “You push food on me like a crack dealer,” he said, bluntly. “And you don’t eat anything and drink enough coffee to burn a hole in your stomach.”

The bottom dropped out of said stomach. Her mouth went dry. She was transported back to prep school, in her skirt and tights and uncomfortable Mary Janes, desperately trying to hide the extra serving of Christmas pudding she’d stolen from the dining hall behind her back.

She said, “I don’t knowwhatyou mean. I never drink coffee. I’m out of tea is all.”

Holding her gaze all the while, he pushed off the wall – he was always so much taller than she expected when he bothered to stand up straight – and stepped up to the cart. First, he lifted the electric kettle and gave it a shake, so the hot water within sloshed. Then he lifted the lid of her engraved, Chinese tea box to reveal the plethora of loose leaves inside. He stepped back, and stared at her, insistent.

“Has anyone ever told you,” she asked frostily, ignoring the fine tremors that had started up in her hands. It was probably just the caffeine. “That you’re a very rude man?”

“Da.”

“Tactless, even.”

“Mmhm.”

“Oh…” She snatched up her cup. “Mind the hole in your own stomach,” she snapped, turned, and marched back toward the sofa.

Behind her, he said, “You got some on the front of your dress, too.”

For the second time that morning, she froze because of him. Glanced down, and swore when she saw the splatter of coffee all across her chest. “Bollocks.”

She thought she heard an aborted little snort of laughter, but when she looked over her shoulder, he was back to slouching, messing with his phone.

Raven slapped the coffee down on the table and went to get changed.

Three

Raven snatched a bag out of one of the wardrobes in her office, swept into the en suite, private bathroom, and swept back out ten minutes later wearing a sleeveless black dress that was completely chic and appropriate…but which broke Toly’s brain a little bit. In his time in every strip club and brothel in Moscow, in his time at the clubhouse and working gigs in Manhattan, he’d seen women of all shapes and sizes, from stick-thin, to trying too hard, to lusciously curved, but call him Goldilocks, because the way clothes hugged Raven Blake’s body wasjuuuust right.

He glanced back down at his phone as she fussed about at the coffee table, straightening and arranging and wiping a smudge off its glass surface with a licked fingertip in a gesture so practical and maternal she seemed almost human for that split-second.

It was five ‘til ten. If Miles’s dossier was correct, Donovan Smith tended to arrive two minutes early to his meeting, presumably in an attempt to throw the other attendees’ confidence and take instant control of the proceedings.

The secretary, Melanie, came bustling in with a tray bearing a fresh water carafe, glasses, and chocolates in a dish. She looked and sounded harried. “Miss Blake, we just got the call from the parking garage: Mr. Smith is on his way up.”

“That’s fine,” Raven said, soothingly. “We’re ready for him. When he arrives, please present him with this packet” – she handed over a latched folder that Melanie took with a nod – “and remind him that he never responded to the digital one I emailed him last week. See if he’d like a moment in the waiting room to go over its contents before we meet. I’ll be happy to wait.” There was a wicked edge to her voice, something that wanted a challenge, and the sound of it never failed to send a pleasant chill up the back of Toly’s neck.

It left Melanie’s shoulder sagging with relief. Her boss was in control, here, not Donovan Smith. She could relax, didn’t have to worry. Raven had the uncanny ability to be the most intimidating woman in the building, but one with a knack for setting all her people at ease. Toly had never seen anything like it. The closest example was Maverick.

“Miles,” Raven said, and turned to search for her brother when he lifted a single headphone off his ear and only half-sat up. “Miles, you can’t be in here for this. I don’t want him to know your face.”

“Oh. Okay.” He got up, then, without argument, bundled his laptop into his arms and headed for the door. He paused, though, and glanced toward Toly, frowning. “What about your face? Is that a problem?”

Raven waved dismissively as she arranged the tray to her liking, and tidied her flawless hair. “He looks nothing like that, usually. No one who saw him in proper clothes would recognize him elsewhere.”

Well. That was true.

Miles shrugged and left.

Raven stood up straight, statuesque in her high heels, smoothed her dress, and closed her eyes a moment. Took a slow breath in, and let it out just as slowly.