Chapter 8
LUKE
I barely sleep and rise before dawn.
It’s an old army habit, the legacy of a thousand operations in dangerous places.
Predawn is the best time to hunt.
This morning, however, the only thing I plan to kill is the hard-on that hasn’t quit since I left that damned Viewing Room beneath the Quartier.
I reach the boathouse on the River Thames by four thirty and have a single scull in the water fifteen minutes later.
I push off from the concrete ramp, oars settling into the locks with a satisfyingly loud clunk.
I glide out to the misty center of the river, draw my knees up, brace myself, and explode into my imaginary race.
Half stroke. Three-quarter stroke. Half stroke. Full.
Clean, physical force that consumes my mind and body, burning away confusion and demanding total absorption in the task.
Dip oar. Thrust legs. Pull to abdomen. Lift oar. Repeat.
One moment of distraction, and the rhythm is lost.
“Luke. I appreciate you making the effort.” Zinaida’s voice, cool and detached, her opaque sapphire eyes looking through me as if I’m not even there.
My oar catches an eddy, and I lose my stroke.
Fuck.
I right the boat, find my rhythm again.
Get it together. She’s a fucking client.
The boat glides upriver, passing under London Bridge toward Blackfriars. The November mist is so thick the tower of the Tate Modern art gallery is barely visible.
Big Ben chimes the quarter bells at five fifteen as I pass under Waterloo Bridge, pulling me back to the London damp and the slap of my oars in water.
I’ve hit the smooth pace where the scull is skimming the river, my body a seamless, continual flow of force that feels as if I could keep it up forever.
As the motion of oars becomes hypnotic, my subconscious dredges up images I won’t allow my conscious mind to entertain.
A glass box with a chair inside and screens on either side.
I pull back on the oars with a burst of power I didn’t know I had, urging the scull even faster.
Zinaida spreading her legs like it’s business as usual, eyes as dead as a winter lake.
The air explodes from my lungs in an audible rush, the scull creaking under the pressure of my stroke.
Her glistening, swollen folds pulsating onscreen in my peripheral vision.
The blades slice out of the water, and I come forward in the seat, trying to master the sudden, fierce surge of lust.
Zinaida Melikov’s fingers curling inward on her palm like a fan closing as she loses control.
One oar catches so hard I almost upturn the goddamn scull.
That was it. Those folding fingers were her tell.
That was the moment I saw her.
The boat spins and tips. I recover my balance and start stroking again, but the flow is broken. I ease oar just after Westminster Bridge and pull my knees up, resting my elbows on them, breathing hard. My body is as wired as if I were geared up for a mission.
Except I’ve never gone to war with a hard-on so relentless it’s painful.
Truth is, I’ve barely fucking slept for seeing Zinaida with her legs spread, staring at me like I don’t exist.
Not only because it was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
Because, in that tiny curl of her fingers, I saw her mask slip.
It was barely a split second, the briefest loss of control. Zinaida recovered herself so fast it might never have happened.
I’m willing to bet most men wouldn’t have noticed.
But then, I’m not most men. I’m trained to see what other men don’t.
And in that moment, I saw past the dead eyes. Past the performance, the mask, the game.
I caught a glimpse of the woman who lives behind the masquerade.
And now I can’t stop thinking about her.
The air around me shifts and I freeze, my entire body alert with the second sense that has saved me a hundred times or more in the field. My eyes scan the water, but nothing moves.
Even so, there’s something. A flicker just out of sight. A ripple on the still air.
Zinaida.
I can feel her, as surely as if she were standing right in front of me. But the morning is still and silent, the docks empty.
Jesus, Luke. I shake my head. She’s got you jumping at fucking shadows.
I turn the scull around and start homeward at a quieter pace, trying to shake off the strange feeling.
Once a week at a minimum I push myself to do the entire round trip at speed, but this morning I want some time to think.
I have questions.
Like, for example, what exactly was Zinaida’s little performance all about last night?
I’ve never been interested in playing psychological games with women. I play more than enough of them in my job, which has left me with unerring instincts to sniff out manipulation of any kind and then deal with it. Swiftly and decisively.
In war that means a kill.
Same thing in relationships, only it’s the connection that dies, rather than the human involved. I’m the king of the good time and get out philosophy.
Zinaida’s performance last night is the kind of head fuckery that I should definitely cut dead.
Especially coming from a client.
But despite the sea of red flags, and how much I might hate games, Mak was right about one thing: I do need danger the way I need to breathe.
And Zinaida Melikov is the most dangerous woman I’ve ever met.
Not to mention the delectable feast between her legs that has haunted my every goddamn thought since I left that room.
It’s work, Luke. You’ve always been able to detach when it comes to work.
And besides—I don’t sleep with clients.
Ever.
From now on, I just need to view Zinaida Melikov as a job and nothing more, that’s all.
My phone vibrates in the waterproof pocket of my rowing singlet.
“Luke.” I hear the clink of glasses and rustle of bedsheets behind Mak’s languid drawl. “She signed.”
I’m not proud of the dark thrill that goes through me.
“You’ll need more than one suit, so my tailor is expecting your call this morning. He’s opening as a favor to me, so make sure you tip well.”
I grin despite myself.
“And you’re expected at Pigalle Mayfair, nine a.m. tomorrow.”
By the sounds of revelry in the background, Mak took at least one of Zinaida’s dancers home, possibly more.
“Having fun?” I’m aiming for casual, but even I hear the rough edge to my voice.
Mak laughs. “I always do, dear boy.” He lowers his voice. “But not as much as I expect you’re about to.”
He hangs up without waiting for an answer, and I drift on the water, my entire body wired to hell.
Nine a.m., huh?
I pull the oar with rather more force than is required.
Fuck that.
I’ve always been an early riser. Nine a.m. is practically midmorning.
And besides.
Something tells me that when it comes to the lovely Miss Melikov, it’s best to be ahead of the game.