Page 84 of Nothing More

“What?”

He looked as though he wanted to smile broadly, but held himself back. “I’ve also been in touch with your brother.”

“Which one?”

“Fox.”

Bollocks.

“He said that you have a habit of striking out on your own in these sorts of situations. Something about stealing someone’s motorcycle and going rogue?” His brows lifted in question.

“God,” she huffed. “I onlyborrowedAlbert’s bike, I didn’tstealit, and I didn’t put so much as a scratch on it.”

He chuckled – it was a nice chuckle, low and throaty, tinged with years spent smoking. “I don’t doubt it. But you can see why I’m not chomping at the bit to give names, dates, places, and times. Right?”

She glared.

“I’m not anxious for the licking I’d take if anything happened to you. So.” He spread his hands. Looked like the sort of person who might saythem’s the breaks, kid.

She could get angry about this if she wanted to. She could work herself up to a proper snit, really grind her jaw, and tap her foot, andburnwith anger.

But she was so very tired.

And scared, she could admit, at least to herself.

She sighed, and felt the fight bleed out of her. She was in wildly short supply of that these days. In a voice that reflected how defeated she felt, she said, “You know, despite all outward appearances, I’m not someone who enjoys beinghandled. I don’t like needing a security detail, or a driver, or having big, strong men” – she rolled her eyes – “talk over my head about keeping me safe. I feel like a child being patted on the head after a nightmare, and Ihateit.”

“Darling,” Ian said, sympathetically.

Prince said, “I get that. I do.”

“But?” she prompted.

He shrugged. “But them’s the breaks, kid.”

Raven snorted…and then a howl of laughter swelled in her throat. She put her face in her hands to smother it, and wound up giggling like a hyena instead.

“She’s a bit stressed,” she heard Ian say.

“Well, yeah.”

“And about to become more stressed, I hate to say.”

Raven choked back the last of her laughter, wiped her eyes, and reached for her wine. “Why?” she asked. Her hand froze halfway toward her glass when she caught sight of his expression. “Why?”

He took a big breath, his gaze fixed somewhere over the top of her head. “Well, don’t look now, but–” His eyes widened. “Damn,” he murmured. “Him, too?”

“What?” She twisted around in her chair.

Later – manymonthslater – she would reflect back on this moment and laugh herself silly.

She noticed Toly, first. Wildly out of place in his all-black, hair mussed from his hood; sour face, and his hands jammed in his jacket pockets. He was drawing looks, some appreciative, some fearful.

She locked eyes with him. Feltgood, a pleasant shiver, ayes, hi, hello, a welcome throb in all the places where she was sore from two nights in a row of his unforgiving attentions.

His head snapped sharply around toward the hostess station, while she was still trying to process the fact that he was here, and she followed his gaze to see the other out-of-place party.

A leggy young man in painted-on jeans, short shirt that flashed hipbones and treasure trail, and a heavy, white fur coat stood with one hand on his hip, the other holding the frames of his smoky sunglasses as he looked contemptuously over their rims at the hostess. He wore his dark hair gelled down to jagged, drawn-out points. Everything about him radiatedmodel. Spoiled-brat, pain-in-the-arse, Eurotrash model. When he spoke – far too loudly – it was with a heavy Russian accent. “What do you mean ‘hysterical’? Do I look hysterical to you?” Sneering, he turned to the person standing behind him. A quiet, composed young man, his blond hair slicked back, blue eyes owlish behind a pair of chunky black glasses. He wore a dark green turtleneck and matching wool coat, hands clasped demurely in front of him. “Do I look hysterical to you, Sergei?”