"Exactly," Thomas praised her, a little sadly. "Showing any softness after your disobedience is dangerous. It must appear that my first loyalty is to The Corporation. You must appear shamed, cowed by your punishment. I am sorry, but I will make up for it in private, my darling. You won't forget that I l-" There was silence for a moment, Lauren held her breath, praying he'd justsayit, but... "That you are my sweet, most precious wife."
Rubbing her cheek against his thigh, Lauren forced herself to sound confident. "I won't, Thomas. My Sir. I won't forget."
Later, dressed in cream trousers and a lavender silk top, she handed the rest of her luggage off to Chuck, who nodded as he carried it out to the BMW waiting to take them to the airport. Thomas held her face in his warm hands, smiling down at her. He was so beautiful, her husband, with those Mediterranean blue eyes and a smile that could almost be characterized as tender. "It's time to go, darling. You won't forget?"
Lauren's teeth worried at her lower lip. "I won't forget."
She watched as all the warmth drained from his perfect features, his gaze turning polar. "Very well," even his voice was chilly, clipped. "It's time to go. Come along." Without waiting for her Thomas turned and left the house, striding to the idling car.
Chapter 33 – Mine
In which Thomas gives Lauren the best of all gifts. Jewelry. And surveillance.
Thomas was busy going over reports on the way to the airport, so Lauren simply sat with her hands folded properly in her lap, looking out the window. She was still terrified about this trip- some unknown part of her raging and pounding on the walls of her subconscious topay attention goddamnit!But she couldn't stop it, so she had to be watchful. Lauren sighed, crossing one leg over the other while looking merely pretty and ornamental. She had a sudden, intense longing for a big fat bottle of wine and a sincere prayer there would be one on the jet. But given that Arabella was supposedly dry, she wasn't sure what would be available to the wives.
Wives.
Oh, shit, the girl thought wearily, she'd have to keep an eye on Clara! This was going to end the honeymoon between her and Michael in a big way, and not for the first time Lauren was oddly grateful that Thomas never hid what he was, what he wanted from her. Her heart hurt, thinking about the expression on her sweet friend's face when she finally realized the handsome monster she'd married.
By the time they boarded the jet, however, Arabella was deeply asleep in one of the reclining seats with a sleep mask and what suspiciously looked like a shackle on her right wrist, leading to the armrest. Kingston's "assistant" quickly pulled up the fur lap robe on Arabella's legs to cover it. Once the jet had left London, Thomas and the other two men disappeared into the jet's boardroom to go over papers, leaving Clara and Lauren alone. While Michael gave his bride a lingering, pointed kiss first, Thomas left the cabin without a backward glance. "I won't forget," Lauren repeated silently, "I won't forget. I know he was going to say 'love' today."
"Are you nervous?" The question in Clara's pretty voice made Lauren look up and pay attention.
"What do you mean?" she hedged.
The other girl looked out the window, staring at the clouds. "This feels... bad, I guess. Of all of The Corporation's business contacts, these people are the scariest-" Clara shuddered, "remember that awful strip club?"
Lauren was a little startled to hear the shy Mrs. Fassell bring it up, given what they'd both had to do there. "Oh," she agreed bleakly, "I remember." She couldn't stop herself from blurting, "I didn't think I'd speak to Thomas for a week after that." She watched Clara cringed. "I don't ever want to have to do something like that, ever again." While she'd known they'd both been required to "perform," it still made Lauren terribly sad to hear it. Especially because she was certain that the new Mrs. Fassell didn't get a picnic and Shakespeare in Hampstead Hill Garden the next day as an apology, the way she had.
With a sigh, she reached out and squeezed Clara's hand. "Well, we'll look out for each other, all right? We already know our men can take care of themselves." She spotted a bottle of Riesling in the small glass-fronted fridge and rose with an unseemly haste to fetch it.
Being packed into the same huge, black SUV with the rest of The Corporation's management meant Lauren couldn't dart back and forth between the car windows, trying to see everything. Her high school friend had told her so many exciting things about St. Petersburg- she was dying to explore. But instead, she sat sedately, legs crossed properly and hands in her lap, squished between Thomas and a barely conscious Arabella. It could be worse, she thought, looking at a miserable Clara wedged between her husband and the noxious bulk of Number One, who insisted on deliberately leaning over her to address an amused Number Three. Even so, their malevolent presence couldn't quell her excitement when they pulled up to the Grand Hotel Europe, where she just barely stifled a "squee!" when she and Thomas were escorted to the Tchaikovsky suite.
"This is amazing!" she gushed, trying not to bound from room to room like an excitable gazelle, "Can you believe that Tchaikovsky wrote the1812 Overturehere? In these very rooms!"
Williams leaned against the bedroom door, smiling as he watched the way her joy lit Lauren's face in a way he'd not seen in a long time. He felt a painful twinge in his chest as he realized how closed-down and careful his bride had become. "This is The Corporation's way," had become less and less of an acceptable justification.
Then the smile faded away as his wife faced him. "When we go out to dinner tonight with the Bratva's hosts, are we going to have to...?" Her conversation with Clara rose up again and Lauren remembered the soiled feeling she'd had after leaving Semion Mogilevich's nightclub. "Do more... stuff... to accept their hospitality?"
Thomas sighed, straightening to walk over to her. "No, love. Fortunately, at these kinds of events in Bratva's territory, the wives and families attend, so there are no side trips to a Gentleman's Club."
Lauren snorted inelegantly. "You, Sir, were no gentleman."
One dark brow raised, her husband began edging her back against the wall, "And you, darling, were no lady." Thomas grinned rakishly as she blushed a painful scarlet. Leaning close to whisper in her ear, he growled, "And though it was not how I would have planned it, I very much enjoy the idea of taking you against some club wall, or in a darkened corner again. Very much indeed." His bride was still, and for a moment he wondered if he'd brought the memory back too vividly for her. Then Lauren stretched up, slipping her hands under his suit jacket as she made a sharp little bite on his neck, just barely where his shirt collar would cover it.
"Next time no listening devices," she hissed and bit him again. With a groan, Thomas picked her up as if she weighed nothing and simply threw her on the bed, grinning at her stifled shriek as she bounced rather high before landing again, her demure dress hiked up to show her white silk undies.
Pouncing on her before the girl could catch her breath, Thomas whipped his tie off and rapidly tied her hands to the headboard. "And what," he said with a deeply satisfying growl, watching his sweet wife shiver, "would Pyotr Tchaikovsky think of me eating you out on the very bed where he perhaps composedSwan Lake?"
His dark head was between her thighs in seconds and Lauren sucked in a huge breath as Thomas pulled her panties aside to attack her center. "A- actually," she whimpered, "it's said that he composed it for Vladimir Petrovich Begichev, as the intendant of Moscow's Russian Imperial Theatres, and oh! Oh, my god, Sir, please do that again!"
Putting his forehead against her soft stomach he breathed her in, the scent of her that was curiously, always like cinnamon when she came. "Mine," Thomas breathed out like a prayer. Finally, someone who was his. And he was hers, even if he couldn't say it yet. Though the man was quite sure his beautiful bride already knew that.
They were getting dressed for the Bratva welcome party, having showered, soothing scratches and bites with tongues and fingers. Zipping up her black Vera Wang dress, he admired the plunging back and the smooth way it slid over her hips. "You're beautiful, darling." His voice was huskier than he liked, but really... As he expected, she blushed and dipped her head.
"Please," Lauren laughed, "you're the beautiful one in this relationship." She laughed harder at his perplexed expression. "You don't think men can be beautiful, too?"
He made a noncommittal noise, running his hands over her waist. The dress was more demure in front. Elegant, unfussy. Like his Lauren. Finally, with a sigh, he pulled away. "Straker will be by to collect you in half an hour. We'll drive to the party together, but I must meet with One and Three first." His big, warm palm slid down her stomach again, pressing gently. "Are you all right?"
