B: Numbers One or Three or both were involved.
Why leave out Thomas? It was a huge blow to his status if they were behind it. For the hundredth time, she wished her stupid, stubborn and unreasonable husband would just fucking talk to her! Who else could he trust more? She was the only one who would be completely behind him and his survival at The Corporation, even if she hated him being there.
So, she took a bath. Brushed her hair. Tried out at least six of the adorable little bottles containing lotions and powders and something that smelled alarmingly like mothballs. Put on a pretty little nightie that she'd been hoping would be used for more salacious purposes and paced some more. When he still didn't come back, Lauren defiantly pulled out her cello and practiced for another hour until her eyes were drooping too much to see the music. With a final, spiteful twang, she angled the bow incorrectly and her furious movement broke it at the tip. Lauren stared aghast at the shimmering length of wood and fine strands of horsehair flying loose. Her second-best bow...
"God-DAMNIT! My bow? My fucking BOW? Russia hates us!"
It was in the middle of her diatribe when Thomas came back into the bedroom, locking the doors and slipping his phone into his pocket as he watched his demure bride charge angrily up and down the oriental rug, madly waving her bow. There was something so fetching about his girl in her sweet lingerie and her stomping and temper-tantruming. He frowned, when on earth would a woman's tantrum be considered adorable? When you felt... things for them? Angrily closing off that line of thought, he cleared his throat.
"Darling. What happened to your bow?"
Lauren stopped abruptly and glared at him. "I broke it."
Naturally, Thomas looked composed and perfectly put together, leaning against the wall. "May I ask how?"
"Because." she drew out insolently, "I was playing... angry. It was angry playing and now my goddamn bow is broken and my husband doesn't seem to realize the only person he can trust in this world is in the same room with him!"
He'd just been about to take her over his knee for snappishness and cursing until her last sentence stopped Thomas in his tracks. He stared at her, utterly silent and Lauren braced herself with a scowl as his frosty gaze conducted that slow head to toe circuit he used to unnerve her. "You are still worried about last night's revelation."
Lauren's jaw dropped- an expression that made her look remarkably simple-minded but couldn't be helped. "Worried?Worried,Thomas? Something is happening at The Corporation that you're not aware of and the only good thing, the-" humiliatingly, her voice broke, but she continued, "the charity is laundering money and running drugs. These all seem like things to worry about."
"I told you, little girl," his voice was ice again, meant to freeze his wife in her tracks, "this was none of your concern."
She was waving the bow around again like a rather sharp and aggressive baton. "I know you're my scary crime lord husband and I'm just your dutiful arm candy. But we're in Russia and deep in the Bratva clusterfu- uh, the Bratva stronghold and stuff is going sideways. I don't know who you have on your team here, but you have me. Let me help. Women talk, tell me what to listen for." Lauren waited for Thomas to terrify her into submission with a cruel glare and some cutting remark. But he didn't, standing there with his hands in his suit pockets and staring at her as if she was something exotic he couldn't quite put a name to.
With a sigh, Thomas took off his jacket and tie, unbuttoning his dress shirt. "You are correct. I did not know about the drugs. I guided The Corporation away from the drug trade four years ago. Too... messy."
Biting her lip, Lauren fought to not scream at him about there being far more serious issues than 'messiness.' "That's where those idiot Texans come in, right? With that psycho shoot up?"
He nodded, a slight smile on his thin lips at her description. "He wasn't happy that I'd cut off our association with his cocaine cartel. But this development..." Thomas paused for a moment, thinking and she was struck again with how beautiful her evil and apparently drug-dealing crime lord husband was. "Lauren, did any of the wives last night make odd references to 'family?' Something that didn't quite make sense?"
Frowning, she shook her head. "There were toasts to our two families coming together, but nothing too weird." He walked over, looking down at her as he ran the back of his hand over her smooth shoulder. "Can you be my clever girl tonight and listen?"
"Of course," Lauren said instantly, "what else can I do?"
Thomas fought off a sense of unreality as he stared at the determined blonde. His wife hated The Corporation with an almost cellular intensity, he knew that. Yet here she was, insistent on helping him because she knew something just turned sideways. She was helpinghim. "Such a good girl," his voice was huskier than he'd expected, and Thomas irritably cleared his throat. "Arabella does not look to be in any kind of shape to talk, much less answer questions. But see if you can get anything from her tonight. Don't ask Mogilevich's wife anything leading. She's much too experienced. Listen to the other wives. See if the men guarding you talk to each other. But do not-" he took her upper arms and shook her slightly, "donotlook inanyway as if you're attempting to gather information. Do not draw attention to yourself, do you understand?"
Her eyes were wide but not frightened. "I understand."
Thomas made an irritable noise. "It is my responsibility to keep you safe," he began pacing the room, hands on hips, "not allowing you to help." He drew the last word out in a sneer, which Lauren forced herself to ignore. She stopped his circuit around the bed by putting her arms around him.
"I'm here to help you, Thomas. Not The Corporation. But I'm here." For a moment, Lauren was worried he'd angrily pull away from her, but with a sigh, her husband's long arms wrapped around her, too.
"Yes, my lovely Valkyrie, I'm quite aware of your budding savagery," his chest rumbled in a chuckle as Thomas fastened his lips over hers. "My fierce little bride.
Tidying each other under the elaborate shower afterward with giggles from her and a conspirational grin from him, Mr. and Mrs. Williams tried to tone down the giddiness of what really, was a spectacular round of orgasms. Lauren knew she was a little cock drunk, but she felt back in sync with her husband, a sense of partnership that was rare and precious. "Where are we going tonight?" He was zipping up her silvery dress with a skirt shorter than she preferred.
Straightening the back of her dress, Thomas said, "One of the Bratva nightclub properties." Seeing her look of horror, he chuckled and shook his head, "No darling, as I told you, the wives are along on this trip. It will be nothing like last time." He ran one finger over the slight slope of Lauren's breasts as she heaved a sigh of relief. They both stepped reluctantly to the closed bedroom door. When they opened it, he would once again be the icy, indifferent husband and she would be the shamed, cowering bride. "Listen, but do not look as if you're attempting to get information," he warned, dipping his head to kiss her.
Lauren forced a smile and nodded back. "And I won't forget." There was a flash of something in his Mediterranean eyes, and her crime lord husband kissed her again.
"Don't forget."
By any jaded New York or London standards Lauren might have had, the Bratva nightclub was spectacular. Four levels of swooping industrial style steel and oak, elaborate (and likely, wildly uncomfortable) seating and DJ's that switched from house music on one floor, then to dubstep, trance on the third and by the fourth, it was clearly the VIP section and the DJ looked suspiciously like Dutch star Tiësto. When he looked up and smiled at her, Lauren was certain of it. "Damn..." she mumbled.
As expected, she, Clara, Arabella were instantly cut from the herd of The Corporation's black suits and sent to sit with the Bratva spouses. They looked quite different than the night before when everyone was dressed elegantly. Tonight, the Bratva women's dresses were plunging and slit high, makeup darker and their laughter louder. Lauren sat next to Zia; Romanoff's timid bride who seemed very different. She was briskly puffing on a joint and offered it to Clara, who shook her head with a nervous smile, then to Arabella, who took it in a matter of fact manner and smoked it down to ash. The Russian woman merely laughed and lit another one. Lauren waved it off with a smile and bent in to ask about the nightclub.
"This place is amazing, Zia," she said, "how many of these clubs does the company have?"
