Chapter Eight
In which there is Forearm Porn.
Caroline…
It's nearly silent on the jet for nine hours.
The four guards accompanying us quietly play round after round of cards.
After we took off, Nikandr's grin stretched wide when one of them pulled out a deck, shuffling expertly.
"Would you like to play?" he asked me, which seemed remarkably snide.
"I'm sure the men would be happy to have you join them. "
The guards didn't look happy at all about his suggestion, and I shook my head with a smile. "Thank you, gentlemen, but I only take money from entitled rich boys. You earn your pay."
Every gaze turned to Nikandr and it was like the entire jet held its breath.
He merely chuckled and pulled out his laptop and a pile of papers from his briefcase.
The only useful information he'd been willing to offer was that Alexsey and his Second, Vasilisa are already, "Attending to business," in Moscow.
The trip is quiet then, just the low hum of the engine and the flight attendant hovering with snacks and drinks.
I don't want to tell the flight staff how to do their job, but the snacks are substandard.
The charcuterie board is nice but I'm not in the mood to chase olives down the aisle.
How about a tower of little pieces of chocolate?
Like a chocolate Jenga game to keep everyone occupied.
The flight attendant is more interested in eye-fucking Nikandr until he irritably tells her to go away.
Who can blame the woman? He's taken off his suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt.
I've heard the term forearm porn, but never had a chance to apply it until now.
He has thick, muscled forearms, veins snaking down and over his enormous hands, with his obscenely expensive watch gleaming on his wrist.
I resent his forearms. I resent them for being so sexy and making my insides curl in a way they should not be curling for this dismissive pretty boy.
The rolled sleeves also show off the tattoos flowing up his arms. A whole series of skulls.
Grey and terrifying, stark white and stylized.
Skulls with snakes twining in and out of their eyes, some with flowers, black and drooping.
I've noticed that no hint of ink shows past his cuffs and collar.
The perfect, buttoned-up businessman until the tie comes off.
His shirt gapes as he moves his arm and I can see the snarling muzzle of the Morozov wolf tattoo on his chest. Is it hairy?
Does he have a hairy chest, or does he wax it?
He seems like the kind of guy to wax his chest.
For fuck's sake, woman! Pull it together!
I spend the time going over the new amenities list for The Lyric and trying to figure out a way I can create a VIP access option for a series of events around the city. I do have the benefit of knowing about rare and unusual legitimate and not so legitimate activities, so I may as well use it.
My fingers are flying over my keyboard, and I raise my eyes from my monitor once to see Nikandr staring at me. I feel a prickle of goosebumps. How long has he been doing that? I arch a haughty brow and he chuckles. "We're going to land in half an hour."
"How do you know?" I know he hasn't moved from his seat for the last hour or so. Just then the co-pilot steps into the cabin, announcing quietly, "We will be landing in thirty minutes."
Nikandr is staring at me smugly as if he possesses all the secrets of the Universe and my shoulders do this weird shrugging thing, like I'm a high school girl ready to say, "Whatever."
I force myself to come up with a more adult response.
"Well, thank you both," I say dryly, returning my attention to my laptop. My fingers twitch and- well, goddamnit now I can't work. He's got me distracted again. I shut my laptop and listen to the occasional quiet murmur of his deep voice as he speaks with one of the guards.
When we land, I shake hands with the flight attendant because I don't hold it against her that she spent the entire flight trying to get Nikandr's pants off instead of feeding the rest of us.
Because of course, she would try to fuck Nikandr. His face card is lethal.
I also shake hands with Pilot Volkov. "Thank you for keeping us alive," I say pleasantly.
He chuckles. "I'll do my best to keep you alive on the flight back home as well, ma'am." His smile fades as he looks over my shoulder at Nikandr, who's probably being stiff and Sovietnik-ish.
To my dismay, we landed at a private airfield, which appears deserted.
I should have anticipated that. Of course, the Morozov's bougie jets wouldn't land anywhere as pedestrian as a public airport.
But that also means I'm trapped in a car with Nikandr for however long it takes to get to The Hotel Tsaritsa, or now that I'm in Moscow, I should say Otel' ?Tsaritsa? with all the fancy spelling and punctuation.
One of his guards is already loading my luggage into the back of a gray Bentley, so I grit my teeth and smile.
Another dark-suited bodyguard opens the back door for me, and I slide in to see that smug son of a bitch is already seated comfortably on the other side, texting someone rapidly on his phone, lips pursed in concentration.
I settle in, fastening my seatbelt. I'm going to think successful, happy thoughts about my tour of Otel' ?Tsaritsa? and all the excellent ideas I'll be taking back to-
"It's about a half an hour drive to the hotel," he says, his eyes never leaving his phone screen.
"Feel free to make yourself a drink," he nods toward a bar, which is cleverly designed to fit against the back of the front seat.
When I open it there are many delightful adult beverages to choose from.
"While you're there, pour me a vodka, would you?
" His fingers are still blazing across his keyboard.
"We're not at the Lyric and I don't work for you." I smile pleasantly. "You're welcome to help yourself." I see the driver's eyes in the rearview mirror; they're wide and somewhat alarmed. I guess nobody talks back to the Sovietnik.
Nikandr refuses to take offense, chuckling and reaching over to make a drink for himself. Unfortunately, I had not anticipated that that meant he would be so close. Close enough that I can see his five o'clock shadow. I wonder how it would feel rasping against the skin on my thighs.
Oh my God, where did that come from?
His hair is gleaming in the low light, it's impossibly thick and he smells like wintergreen, obscene amounts of money and poor life choices.
Gorgeous or not, I have got to keep away from this man.