Page 81 of Nothing More

“We’re nothing alike,” he said, sniffing. “Although, I will allow that the man dresses sharply.”

“Hm, yes.” She checked her phone, dropped it in her bag, and hiked the strap over her shoulder. “I’m a bit surrounded by well-dressed men.” She gestured to her office, the whole agency. “It’s capability I find most impressive.”

“Capability.” He nodded. “Perhaps the greatest of attractants.”

She sent him a sideways glance as they left the office, waving to Melanie as they went, their security before and behind them. “You’re behaving strangely this afternoon,” she accused.

“Really? I don’t think so. But since you brought it up, speaking of capability…” He paused until she glanced sideways at him, and his grin was small, but sharp and teasing; the sort of grin that preceded nothing good. “Yesterday, we established that a certain mutual acquaintance wasgood–”

“Ian,” she warned, tightly, under her breath. The coffee vibrated in her stomach, up and out through her limbs, hands jittery on her bag as she adjusted the hang of it against her side.

“In this case,” he went on, lilt of his voice saying he was enjoying this far too much, “doesgoodsimply meanadequate, or are we talkingcapable? Reallyattractivefor you? Perhaps even–”

As they stepped through the frosted glass agency doors – Bruce holding one side open, her hired man (Carl today, was it?) – Raven stepped neatly on Ian’s foot; ground the spike heel of her red-bottom into the top of his wingtip. Hard.

His hiss was half-a-laugh. “Ah,” he said, eloquently, and dropped the subject. Thank God.

In the elevator, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and hiked up the injured foot to polish the scuff off his shoe. Bruce tried to do it – “Here, sir, allow me” – but Ian waved him off and did it himself, glancing up at Raven through the shining, swinging curtain of his auburn hair, where it had slid forward over his shoulder. “For what it’s worth, I think you’ll get on well with Prince.”

“I have met him, you know.”

“But only the once, and a chapel meeting is hardly a civilized lunch.”

She smirked. “I shall tell the boys you said that.”

He shrugged as he straightened. “You should, if only to watch them squirm. Everyone knows I like a bit of rough.”

She sent him a narrow look. “You’re entirely too…fresh….lately. When does Alec return from Tennessee?”

Without having to think of it, he said, “Five days, four hours, twelve minutes.”

Perhaps in five days, four hours, twelve minutes, she’d no longer have to endure his poking, prodding, and teasing about her love life.

Not that she had one. No. Certainly not.

As subtly as she could, she slipped her phone out and checked her texts to see if Toly had finally gotten back to her – but, of course, he hadn’t.

~*~

Toly had been dragged from a fitful sleep by the trill of his phone just after eleven. For a moment, running on too little sleep and too many cigarettes, he hadn’t known where he was – or evenwhenit was. As he blinked the crust from his eyes, he thought he was in Raven’s bed, still, too tired and stupid and soft to refuse her offer to stay. Then a creak sounded above him, like the creak of the leather gloves he’d worn as Obshchak, like the flex of Misha’s hands as he stood over him, right before he tossed a jacket at his head and said, “He wants you.”

Cold dread washed over him.

But then the creaking got louder, followed by a groan, and a familiar voice – that didn’t belong to Misha – said, in English, “Dude, aren’t you gonna answer that?”

As quick as they’d flared, his nerves had flattened. He was in the bottom bunk in one of the two bedrooms at the club apartment. Pongo – who’d grumbled for a good ten minutes about the phone call – had come in while he was sleeping, and Toly was alarmed that he hadn’t awakened at what had doubtless been a noisy, uncareful entrance.

The phone had rang out, but then started up again. It had been Miles. “I think you’ll wanna see this.”

An hour later, standing in the center of Raven’s apartment, empty save the two of them, he acknowledged that Miles had been correct.

Miles had set his laptop up on the coffee table and they sat side-by-side on the sofa, shoulders brushing as Miles leaned forward and clicked play on the security footage he’d pulled up.

This was clearly from the camera pointed toward the front door – which opened, as they watched. The time-stamp said ten-fifteen, well after when everyone had left. The footage was grainy, and black and white on top of it, but the image of a man entering the apartment was clear enough. He wore maintenance cover-alls with a name patch sewn on the breast, carried a plastic toolbox, and carried his head tucked low, face shielded from view by the bill of a baseball cap.

He stepped in, closed the door, and strode down the entrance hall, skirting the table and walking toward the camera, face still hidden. He never looked up into the lens, but at the last moment, his hand lifted, and something – a cloth, probably, because whatever it was, Toly hadn’t seen it minutes ago when he’d walked in – dropped down over the lens, plunging the view into blackness.

Miles shifted again, clicked a few buttons, and the view changed. “Here’s from the kitchen camera.”