“Oh,” she shrugs, her cheeks pink, “I usually just eat after my shift.”
“So you haven’t eaten.” Taking out my phone, I message one of my men to stop by Mancini’s, my favorite Italian restaurant, and order one of every entree. “The food will be here soon.”
“This kitchen is beautiful and you have every appliance known to man and a couple that I don’t recognize,” she says. “I could just make something. Eating out is so expensive.”
Lucya Drubrovina is from one of the wealthiest Bratvas in Russia, and she’s worried about the cost of food. I remember something about her mother sending her and Inessa to the States to go to school. So why is she working herself half to death? Did she grow out of her baby fat or is her new figure because she’s been going hungry?
“I fear the only thing in the kitchen is scotch and coffee,” I say, watching her self-consciously smooth her hair back after catching a glimpse in the mirror in the hallway. “Would you like to take a shower while we’re waiting? You’ll feel better. I’ll put out some clothes for you.”
“I will never fit into anything of yours,” she laughs.
“You’ll be swimming in my shirts,” I agree, “but better my clothes than that bloody uniform.” Opening the door to my master bedroom, I lead her across to the bathroom, starting the shower that takes up half the room. It’s built against another wall of windows and looks out over the harbor.
“This is amazing!” Lucya’s exploring all the different knobs, watching each shower head spurt hot water as the room fills with steam. “That window, though. I can’t take my clothes off and be…” She waves her hands anxiously, “I’m not putting on a show for everyone stumbling out of that bar down the street.”
“I agree, I would have to kill every man who saw you naked. The window is reflective, you can see out, but no one can see in. It’s also bulletproofed.”
“There can’t be a worse time to get shot than naked with shampoo in your eyes,” she agrees, looking away from me, tugging on the hem of her shirt.
She’s not getting undressed. It’s ironic since women routinely strip down for me; in bed, the backseat of a car, a shadowy corner of a club.Kolibri,however,clearly intends to stand here uncomfortably until I leave the bathroom.
“Do you need some help?” It comes out sounding darker than I intended, but the pretty pink flush on her cheeks is making me hard.
What the hell? This is sweet little Lucya and my dick is hard enough to hammer nails. I’m a pervert.
“No! Um, thank you, I’ll just…” She waves awkwardly at the shower, steam billowing out and wreathing us in eucalyptus-scented mist. “If you could go?”
I head for the door, subtly adjusting my pants. “There will be clothes for you on the bed.” Pouring four fingers of scotch into aglass, I gulp it down, willing my cock to go down before the little girl I pulled from the frozen pond all those years ago realizes what a sick fuck I am.
She’s not a little girl anymore…The voice that represents all the worst elements in me speaks up. I pour another glass and tell my inner voice to shut the hell up.
Chapter Six
In which there is dinner and conversation. And yearning.
Lucya…
Once I’m in the shower, the reality of this day crashes down on me and I sit on the marble tile bench before my knees give out. Alexi Turgenev, here in the States, and just as beautiful and terrifying as always. I watched him kill five men in the time it takes to light a cigarette. He would have killedmeif he hadn’t recognized me in time. His eyes were ice chips, remote, indifferent. The memory of his hand around my throat sends a bolt of heat through everything below my waist. I can’t imagine the strength it would take to lift me off my feet with one arm while he casually held his gun with the other.
You’re not Lucya the Snow Monster anymore,I remind myself.The flush of shame that always rises when I think of the names the girls at school used to call me isn’t here this time. Instead, all I can picture is Alexi’s face so close to mine, the odd chill of his body pressing against me.
If he hadn’t taken me to the doctor first, bringing me here to this empty-looking place would convince me that he intended to murder me and dump my body. This building is only a block from the beginning of the trendy bars and hotels of the Seaport District, but it’s a silent place in the middle of the din of Boston,as if the rest of the city is afraid to get too close to the Angel of Death.
There’s something oddly intimate about using his personal things, like the spicy-smelling shampoo and body wash and I can picture him soaping up his broad chest and…
What iswrongwith me?
When I finally force myself to leave the heavenly sanctuary of the shower, I use one of his black towels, instead of the clean ones he laid out for me. The smell of him is intoxicating and I wonder if there’s a way to steal one of them so that I could always have his scent with me.
Clearing my throat, I call out, “Hello?”
There’s no answer, so I edge out into the huge, quiet bedroom. There’s another bank of windows looking out on the harbor and an enormous, king-sized bed draped in a dark grey comforter against the exposed brick wall. Aside from a tan and black oriental rug and a few pieces of furniture, the room is scrupulously clean and bare. There’s no pictures of friends and family or knick-knacks, just an extremely well-stocked first aid kit sitting on the desk.
Still, I could picture lying in that bed, cozy and warm, and watching a storm sweep over the water, the view of the harbor would be spectacular.
He’s left a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt for me, both soft and faded from countless washings. Even after rolling up the waist and the pant legs, I look ridiculous.
Not the image I’d hoped to present when I finally saw him again.
