“That Dress” – The Pale White

The sun sets on the horizon as the car winds through the busy streets of Moscow.

I send a text to Igor: Have Camilla here in five minutes, then I toss my head back against the leather seat, already bored to tears from the party I'm about to attend. My bank endorses Derevechi, and as a hard and fast supporter, I'm expected to show my face at these events. Sometimes a photograph of a handshake will buy your innocence, after all.

The car rolls to a stop outside the restaurant, and I wait for the driver to open the door. When I step out, cameras flash. I smile and wave, watching as Nikoli and Anastasia walk to the entrance of the restaurant. Her gaze drifts to me. A deep pout settles on her face as she clings to her husband. Even from here I can see the longing. Women are such predictable creatures: make them believe there's something they can't have and they crave it, they seek it out like an addict searching for one more hit. Poor Anastasia, if only she realized there's a fine line between addiction and death.

I shake hands with the politicians, with the other elite, and then I’m whisked inside. The restaurant is a flurry of activity. Waiters and waitresses scurry about, hoping to make the tip of a lifetime. The entire room is filled with men in suits, beautiful women with the perfect smile.

I weave my way between the tables, looking for my name card, and a man blocks the path in front of me. "Mr. Cole," he says, holding his hand out to shake mine. I take it and nod. "I'm Rick VanHeussen, Parliament member one-hundred nine." He grins. I want to roll my eyes, but appearances are important when you're trying to deceive.

"Very nice to meet you," I say.

"And I just wanted to thank you for your bank's charitable contribution to Skveya Orphanage."

I spot my name card on the far table, and offer another smile. "Bless the little children," I say before patting over his back and excusing myself to my seat.

Derevichi's table is next to mine, and I smile at him as I sit next to Anton. Prime Minister Vasily is at Anton's other side discussing some foreign exchange policy, but I doubt Anton is hearing a word. His face is glistening with sweat, and he keeps shifting anxiously in his seat. One's conscience can be such a burden...I grab the napkin from the table and lay it over my lap. "You look, ill, Anton," I say. "I hope you're not coming down with the flu. It's dreadful." I smile mockingly before lifting a glass of water to my lips.

“Ronan. A pleasure,” Vasily says, reaching across the table to shake my hand. "I was just telling Anton that…” His gaze veers off to the side of the room. “My!" he says, and I turn in my chair. Camilla. Each sway of her hips is a form of seduction, and the white dress I ordered her to wear is striking against her dark skin. She oozes sexuality and every single man in this room takes note of her.

I turn my attention back to the table. Vasily is still gawking with his mouth open. I feel her step behind me.

"Gentlemen," Camilla says, delicately plucking her name card from the table. "I believe I have the pleasure of your company." She unbuttons the fur stole, undraping it from her shoulders, and casually hangs it across the back of her chair. My gaze drops to her chest, admiring the way her breasts strain against the bodice with each breath. Every man at the table shifts in his seat, and I'm certain they're undressing her with their eyes. Camilla is not just beautiful, she's stunning. The perfect image of fantasy. The kind of woman none of the men at this table—aside from myself—would ever have a shot in the dark with.

"Ronan Cole," I say, extending my hand to her.

She turns to me, her gaze flicking over my body. "Camilla Estrada," she caresses the words with her accent, making something as simple as her name sound exotic and sexy. "From Venezuela Financial."

I take her hand and bring it to my lips. I kiss gently over her knuckles, my eyes locked with hers as I arch a single brow. "What a pleasure to finally meet you."

"It's a pleasure to do business with you, Mr. Cole."

I trail my fingers over the inside of her palm, glancing at Anastasia's table. Ana is watching my every move. Worrying. I drop Camilla’s hand and look up at the men left dumbfounded at her beauty. "Ms. Estrada's business has recently become an asset of mine," I say, smirking at her. "Ms. Estrada, this is the Prime Minister of Russia, Vasily Minovichi."

She turns to face Vasily. He holds out his hand to her, his cheeks flushing. "A pleasure," she says, shaking his hand. I point out the other inconsequential people seated at the table. Camilla nods and smiles, playing her part perfectly. After all, I can’t very well introduce her as my hostage. It would put a nasty stain on my image.

And so the dinner begins with hors d'oeuvres and talks of politics and money. Every man in a pissing contest to impress Camilla while I simply sit and watch, throwing in an opinion every now and then for conversation's sake. After the plates are cleared, I glance at my watch and excuse myself to the restroom. Much to my delight, when I come out, Anastasia is waiting in the corridor. I stop midstride, lifting a brow as I adjust my jacket. "What are you doing, Ana?"

"I can't stand not seeing you. Nikoli is gone this weekend. Stay with me," she pleads, nervously glancing down the hallway.

"You know that's not wise." I check the time again.

"I don't care." She hesitates, placing her hand on my arm. I promptly remove it. "Ronan, who is that woman?"

A slight jolt of pleasure courses through me. What a delightful bonus this is. Anastasia is bothered by Camilla, but of course she is. "A business partner.” My lips quirk up. “Jealousy doesn't suit you,” I say and turn to walk off,

“Ronan, I…”

I keep walking, my dismissiveness wounding her deeply, I’m sure.

Camilla is talking to Vasily when I return to the table. He's eating from the palm of her hand, hanging on her every word. She laughs at something he says casually placing her hand on his arm. Frowning, I take my seat and check my watch again. Any minute... I slide my hand under the table and over Camilla's thigh, squeezing. She tenses, clearing her throat as a fake smile falls from her lips. She has no idea how eventful this dinner is about to become. I do enjoy surprises.

I lean into her. "Scoot closer to me," I say quietly.

Before she can react, the window behind the table shatters. Camilla clutches my arm, people scream. The pop, pop, pop of gunfire echoes through the room, and Vasily's head hits the table with a thud. Blood splatters the table cloth, and I fight a smile at the sight. People duck beneath tables, some take off running, Anton faints, and chaos ensues. All the while Camilla sits here stoically, unfazed by the blood coating her chest. I must say, the red splatter looks magnificence over her white satin dress.

"Do try to look a little shocked,” I whisper in her ear. “You are a banker, after all." I take a napkin from the table and dab at the brain matter stuck to her cheek. Amidst the screams, people running around, dishes breaking, I allow a smidge of a grin. "I chose white for you just for this reason. Blood looks so festive over something so clean."

"You enjoy this, don't you?" she asks with a tilt of her lips.

"Immensely."

Body guards quickly surround us. I stand, smoothing my jacket before I hold out my hand to Camilla. She glances at me, raising an eyebrow as she places her hand in mine. When she stands, I grab the fur stole from her chair and leisurely place it around her shoulders. "Don't want to be cold," I say. The Presidential Security Service swarm past as we make our way to the doors. A crowd has already gathered at the front of the restaurant. I take a breath and close my eyes, forcing my jaw to go slack to feign shock. "Lean into me." I wrap my arm around her waist and tug her close. "Pretend to be distraught, you are, after all, covered with Vasily's brain."

"This was such a nice dress," she sighs before burying her face in my shoulder.

The doors swing open to a flurry of excitement and horror, to police cars screeching to a halt. We stumble onto the snow-covered sidewalk and Paparazzi rush us, firing off a hundred questions. I do enjoy the buzz such unexpected tragedies create.

A photographer snaps a picture of Camilla in her blood splattered dress. Playing the role of the protective male, I scowl at him and place my palm against her cheek, pulling her to my chest. She clutches my jacket and lets out a sob. "Please," I say, "no questions. We just..." I take a staggering breath. "We just need to pray for Russia."

Shaking my head, I move us away from the swarming crowd. The body guards surround us like a wall as I usher Camilla inside the waiting car. The door slams shut behind us, muting the chaos outside.

"You could have warned me," she says as she sits back in the seat and looks down at her dress. "Why spend money on Valentino only to ruin it?"

I laugh. "What else would you wear to an assassination?"

"Red?"

"But the white makes it look all the more dramatic." I smile. "A distraught woman dressed in Valentino, soaked with the Prime Minister's blood while Ronan Cole consoles her. What more could the press wish for?"

I watch the sparkle of excitement dance in her eyes as she stares at her blood-splattered chest. I've never met a woman so ruthlessly beautiful. A woman I would dare to think may possibly be a match to myself. Possibly... I take her hand and lift it to my lips, inhaling the metallic scent of blood that lingers on her skin. "A beautiful woman soaked in blood," I murmur over her knuckles. "It does do something to a man."

A bemused smile shapes her lips. "I thought you were averse to mess?"

"This..." I trail my finger over the red smudge on her collarbone, "this is not a mess." I streak the blood along her neck, then grab her hair and yank her head to the side. She gasps, her hands landing on my chest. "This is art," I whisper as I lean in and trail my tongue along the smeared blood, relishing in the taste of absolute power over her, over men, over everything.

Her palm slowly eases up the front of my jacket until her fingers trail the back of my neck. The car bumps over the uneven pavement. Our eyes lock. And here we are at a standoff. Lion versus lioness. The air crackles with a sort of tension much like the calm before the storm. Which way shall the wind blow, Krasivaya?

Her chest falls in ragged swells, and I tighten my hold in her hair in an attempt to ground myself. To regain control. I imagine what she would feel like naked and helpless, pinned underneath me. Slowly, I let her hair fall from my hand and ease back into the seat, directing my attention out the window.

On an exhale, she scoots to the other side of the car. It's such a dangerous game we're playing. Back and forth. Push and pull. Kill or let live... And if I'm honest, I don't know that I've enjoyed playing with someone like this before.

Within thirty minutes the car winds down my private road and stops at the front of the house. The driver opens my door, and I climb out, offering Camilla my hand. She takes it with a frown, and I pull her to her feet so hard that she staggers into my chest. There’s a pause, and I drop her hand, skirting my thumb across her lip. The truth is, I crave her in the most depraved ways although I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t I think as I climb the stairs.

The butler greets me in the entranceway, taking my coat before stripping Camilla of her stole. "Arrange to have Ms. Estrada's dress dry cleaned, please," I say, and he nods before walking off.

“You must keep the cleaners busy,” Camilla says.

A knowing smile crosses my lips. "You're welcome to roam about," I say, adjusting my cufflink. "Just try not to kill anyone."

"That's your job, Ronan."

Ah, Ronan. Not Russian. How civil of her. I make my way down the corridor and into the living room for my nightly ritual: a drink, a cigar, and the late evening news. After all, I do enjoy seeing what carnage I create each day. I settle onto the couch with a cigar in hand, and one of the servants turns the television on.

"—Minister Vasily was shot while attending a dinner to celebrate the upcoming election." Newsreels of people scurrying from the building flash across the screen, and there, in the corner of the frame is footage of Camilla clutched to my chest. So distraught. I grin. That dress did look striking... "At the time, there are no suspects, however they assume it may have been terrorists." Always with the terrorists... I light my cigar as I'm handed a glass of brandy. "The threat of nuclear war seems eminent as officials have discovered a laboratory in China suspected of housing radioactive materials used for Korean nuclear warheads... In financial news, the stock market plummeted after two million shares of Valiant Oil were sold. Brokers were in a frenzy as banks suffered massive withdrawals." I smile as I type out an email to my broker directing him to use twenty million dollars to buy while stocks are low.

"Boss?" Igor steps into the room and holds a phone up. "Ana..."

Rolling my eyes, I take a puff from my cigar, then place it in the ashtray as I motion him over. This entire ordeal is annoying at best, but taking out a President isn't easy work. I take the phone and press the receiver to my ear. "Yes," I say, my attention straying back to the television as Igor silently leaves.

"Ronan," Anastasia's voice comes over the line. "Thank heavens. I was worried about you."

"I'm fine," I say.

"It's terrifying. What if that had been you? I just can't..." Her endless rambling fades into the background as I watch the images of war on the screen. I can only imagine what the news will look like six months from now when my plan is in full swing. "Ronan?" she says, snapping my mind away from the television. "Isn't it terrible? Poor Vasily." I drag my hand down my face and shake my head, trying to force the aggravation away. "It's all just so barbaric."

"It is… Are you okay?" I ask, not that I care, but I must seem like I do.

"Just shaken." There's a slight movement in the doorway and I turn, watching Camilla step into the room. The silk robe she's changed into leaves little to the imagination. I do enjoy her little attempts at seduction, although her chances would have been higher had she not washed the blood from her chest. "You were so dismissive at the restaurant," Anastasia whines.

"We can't take chances, Ana. Nikoli..."

"Do you not want me?"

My eyes lock on Camilla. "Of course I want you," I whisper into the phone. Camilla’s sinful hips sway with every step she takes across the room. When she stops in front of me, she takes the brandy from my hand. I watch her lips delicately touch the rim of the glass before she tips the drink back. "You have no idea how badly I want to fuck you," I say.

Camilla’s eyes flicker, and she moves to the server in the corner of the room. I push up from the sofa and follow her, watching as she picks up the decanter and pours another drink.

"When can I see you again?" Ana asks.

"Soon." I stop behind Camilla and sweep her hair to the side, skimming my nose along her neck. Inhaling the intoxicating scent of her skin. "So soon."

"And what are you going to do, Ronan?" Ana whispers, so desperate for the attention. “Tell me what you’ll do with me.”

"I would ruin you." I press my lips to Camilla's neck. She leans against me, tilting her head to the side as her hand slides up my neck, her nails scratching into my hair. "Are you wet for me?" I ask.

"God, yes... Ronan." Anastasia moans, and I cradle the phone between my cheek and shoulder.

My dick swells with the thought of taking Camilla— of desecrating her. Those primitive urges bubble to the surface, and I surprise myself when I grab her by the hips, pressing my cock against her ass in a bid to have just a small taste. "I would fuck you so hard..." I groan next to her ear. Her fingers tighten in my hair, her back bowing. She wants me just as much as I want her, and oh what a prize this shall be. I spin her around, our eyes locking. "How wet are you right now?" She bites down on her lip, and I shove my knee between her legs, spreading them apart before I force her onto the sideboard. "How fucking wet?" I say into the phone, my eyes glued to Camilla.

Her chest falls on ragged breaths. She leans in close and brushes her lips along the side of my throat. Anastasia’s muttering something over the line, but I don’t hear it. "Drenched," Camilla breathes, her warm breath fanning over my neck.

I take a step back, and a small smile inches over Camilla's face. She scoots back on the sideboard and leans against the wall. Her robe parts, exposing her round breasts as she spreads her legs wide. My gaze falls to her bare pussy, and my entire body heats with want.

"Touch yourself," I say, my cock swelling with each second. Anastasia moans over the line as I watch Camilla's fingers tease over her clit then disappear inside her. She pulls her hand away, lifting her fingers to my mouth and sliding one over my bottom lip. I grab her wrist, slipping two of her fingers inside my mouth. She tastes like sin and power and every temptation I've ever wanted.

The phone drops to the floor, clattering over the hardwoods. I grip Camilla by the jaw and swallow hard. God, I want to fuck her. Ruin her. Make her hurt... I inch my way toward her mouth, my lips brushing hers, my hold on her jaw tightening. Her uneven breaths wash across my face. She's spread out in front of me. It would take nothing to throw her to the floor and fuck her. Blood rushes angrily through my body, begging me to claim her. My gaze falls to her parted legs, and I take a breath, placing my forehead against hers. "You're very brave, little kitty," I whisper before shoving her away.

I snatch the glass of brandy from the sideboard, and pick the phone up from the floor, disconnecting the call on my way back to the sofa. I make a point not to acknowledge Camilla when I grab the smoldering cigar from the ashtray and take a long puff, smoke swirling around my face. The news carries on, going over terrorist attacks, murders, all the things that instill fear within the public. And after a few moments, I catch Camilla's reflection on the TV screen as she walks behind the sofa. Her warm fingers skirt over the nape of my neck and goosebumps rush over my arm. There's a slight pause, as though she's waiting for me to react. And although my cock is straining against my pants, I stare at the screen, dismissing her with silence. She leaves the room and with her goes the crackling tension of a building fire. One I fear shall consume me eventually.