Roma
Over the next few days, the auctions continue. After the first night, I’m allowed to move Felicity to my cabin, quarters fit for a snakelike politician, replete with double bed, porthole window, and en-suite bathroom. I’m also permitted to bring Felicity some clothes from a pile collected by the Russians. I return with a black bag full of dresses and shirts which reveal more than they hide.
But Felicity still jumps at the bag with eager hands. “Thank God!” she says, rooting through it.
I sit on the edge of the bed and watch her, wondering at the feelings which move through me. I know I shouldn’t let myself be attracted to her. I’m on a job and that can only complicate matters. I have to stay focused. I have to hone my killer’s attention on the job and nothing else. I can’t let myself be distracted. But it’s damn hard when you’re sharing a room with a woman as beautiful and strong as Felicity. She was kidnapped, I often think in wonder. She was kidnapped and instead of lying down and taking it she played a role and stole a knife from the kitchen and bided her time. I’m impressed. It’s more than most people would’ve had the guts to try.
“These men are so obvious,” she sighs, pulling out dress after dress.
“How do you mean?” I ask. My eyes are rooted to her. Now she’s safe—safer than she was before I bought her, anyway—she’s tied her hair up in her signature ponytail. It’s more of a top-knot, really. Her hair is fixed at the crown of her head and then spills down her back. Like a Viking shieldmaiden, I think. And then I tell myself: Get a grip, man. But it’s difficult. Her body is lithe, strong, honed from hours and hours of sport. Her belly is tight and well-honed and her arms are small but muscular. I love to watch the way her neck bends and the slant of the light as it hits her cheeks.
She stands up, still wearing lingerie, holding a dress. “I’m going to get changed,” she says. She reaches onto the bed and scoops up some underwear.
“Okay,” I say.
She laughs. A laugh of derision? A laugh of fun? I don’t know.
“Can you turn around?”
“Oh, sure,” I say.
I don’t ask her why she doesn’t go into the bathroom. The idea of her changing in the same room as me, even if my back is turned, is too appealing. I stand up and face the door, arms crossed in front of me. Already, the hostage-purchaser relationship has fallen away. I shouldn’t be standing with my back to her. I’m asking for a knife between my shoulder blades. If Mr. Black saw me acting like this, he’d go into one of his screaming rants.
“Okay,” she says.
I turn around. Air escapes my lips in a great sigh, and then I suck it in with an even greater gasp. She wears a lacey red dress which hugs her in all the right places. Her small, pert breasts are pressed against her chest and her taut legs are on display. I find my eyes trailing down her legs, to her feet, and back up to her chest. And finally to her face, her cheeks red.
“What do you think?” she says.
I nod shortly. “Good, fine,” I mutter.
She turns around. The zip to the dress is undone, down near her ass. I swallow. My cock presses against my pants and all of a sudden I’m a teenager, seeing a woman for the first time.
“Sorry,” she says. “Can you?”
“Sure,” I say.
I walk up behind her, reach down, and take the zip. My hand touches her back. Her skin is warm, tempting. It’s hot. It makes me think of the rest of her. Is she just as hot down . . . I thrust the thought away. On a job, I remind myself. On a goddamn job.
I zip up the dress as quickly as I can.
She turns and faces me. I don’t step away. I tell myself it’s because she turned too quickly, but that’s a lie and I know it. It’s because she’s too sexy and there’s an animal scent come from her, hormonal and potent, that drifts into my body and drives me almost senseless. I feel my hands twitching to reach up and touch her, brush her shoulders. My cock screams at me to take her, to be with her.
Her lips are twisted in a sarcastic grin, her eyebrows raised. “Is something wrong, Roma?”
Dammit, I even love the way she says my name.
“No.” My Adam’s apple shifts as I swallow. “Not at all,” I lie. “Why would you ask?”
“You’ve gone pale.”
“Seasickness,” I mutter.
“Hmm, you haven’t shown any signs before now. I don’t think you get seasick.”
“First time for everything,” I say.
“Maybe.” She watches me for a moment, and then sits on the end of the bed. She stretches her legs out, pointing her toes like a ballerina, drawing attention to every curve and subtle shift in her musculature.
I pace to the other end of the room, afraid if I don’t get away from her, I’ll try something.
I lean against the wall and she tilts her head at me. “You’re acting strange,” she says.
“You barely know me,” I comment. “How would you know that?”
But the truth is, she knows me better than any woman ever has. It’s not that she knows me incredibly well. It’s just that every woman before Felicity didn’t know me at all. I can’t just leave this cabin like I would a motel in the middle of the night. Circumstances have trapped us.
“Just a hunch,” she says. She lowers her voice: “How’s the auction going?”
“Boring and routine.”
“That’s good for us, right?”
I’m impressed by her, make no mistake. She’s thrown herself into this completely. She knows the rules and she’ll play the game until we can get free. I think about the nighttime, when we’re forced to sleep in the same bed. Half the night, I lie awake on my end, staring up at the ceiling and fighting urges which surge through me like electricity. Once, she rolled over in her sleep and draped her arm across my midriff. I didn’t sleep for half the night, just savored the feeling of that small warm hand against my skin.
“That’s good for us,” I confirm.
She nods. “How long now?”
I shrug. “A few days. Need to wait until . . .” I cut short.
“All the girls are auctioned off?” Felicity murmurs.
“Exactly.”
“And my father only sent you to rescue me?”
I force myself not to look away. “Yes,” I say, lying directly into her face.
That shouldn’t bother me. I’m a killer, after all, and last time I checked lying is more moral than killing. But with Felicity it bothers me and I don’t understand it.
She opens her mouth to say something, but then there’s a knock at the door.
I bring my finger to my lips. “Fiona,” I say, looking meaningfully into her eyes.
“Alexander,” she says.
Good.
I open the door. I’m met with Barinov’s glistening forehead. He totters from foot to foot and waves a glass of champagne as he talks. “Alexander, my good friend!”
“Barinov!” I grin, wishing I could snap his neck.
“How goes the merchandise?”
“Good,” I say, hoping my anger doesn’t show in my voice.
“Good, good, good!” he sings, grinning like a jackal. “I am here at the request of Master Zherkov. He wishes to inform you that the men are doing a little display of their merchandise in the viewing room. Lap dances. And I’m sure you know, it’s poor manners to refuse such an offer, especially from the big man himself.”
“A lap dance?” I say. “In front of everybody?”
Baroniv squints at me. “Yes, I can assume there’s not a problem with that, yes?”
“Can you give me a second?”
“That shouldn’t be necessary,” Barinov mutters, but waves his hand.
I close the door and go to Felicity. “Did you hear?”
She nods, biting her lip.
“What will happen if we don’t do it?” she asks.
“They’ll get suspicious and start asking questions we can’t afford them to ask.”
“It’ll break our cover, in other words?”
“Exactly.”
“Then we have to do it.” Her eyebrows furrow. “Let’s just get it over with.”
I’m sorry, I think but do not say.
I return to the door and to an impatient Barinov. “We’ll be down in a moment,” I say.
He claps his hands together. Champagne swills over the side of his glass onto the floor. “Most fantastic!” he grins, and then waddles down the hallway.
I turn back into the room. Felicity stands tall, strong, holding her high heels in her hand with a determined expression on her face.
She’s unlike any woman I’ve ever met, I think.