18. Luka #2
Luka: Rub yourself slowly.
Nina: I am in a store.
Luka: You are in a fitting room.
Nina: With a curtain.
Luka: Then you should be careful.
Nina: You are enjoying this too much.
Luka: Not enough. I would rather be there.
Nina: What would you do if you were here?
I close my eyes for one second.
When I open them, I type exactly what I am thinking.
Luka: I would come in, close that useless curtain, and put my hand over your mouth before you had time to argue, because you would argue just to prove you could.
Then I would turn you toward the mirror, push that dress up slowly, and make you watch while I slid my hand between your legs and found out exactly how much trouble you’ve been causing in a public fitting room.
Luka: No. You asked.
Nina: I asked what you would do if you were here, not for you to make me forget how to breathe.
Luka: I would keep my mouth near your ear and tell you to stay quiet while my fingers moved under that expensive dress. I would let you see my hand disappear beneath the fabric, let you see your own face when I touched you, and every time you tried to close your eyes, I would tell you to open them.
Nina: I would be mortified.
Luka: You would be wet.
Nina: I hate you.
Luka: No, you don’t. You would be holding the edge of the mirror with one hand and my wrist with the other, pretending you wanted me to stop while your body told me the opposite.
Nina: I’m actually going to die in this fitting room.
Luka: Not before I made you come quietly enough that no one outside the curtain knew what I was doing to you.
Nina: Quietly?
Luka: You would try.
Nina: You sound very sure I would fail.
Luka: I know you. You get loud when you’re close.
Nina: Luka.
Luka: And when you were shaking, I would fix your underwear, pull your dress back down, kiss your neck once, and send you out to buy it like nothing happened.
Nina: That is evil.
Luka: That is approval.
Nina: Of the dress?
Luka: Of you in the dress. There is a difference.
Saturday comes with problems before noon.
Pavel sends an update on the plate from the car that dropped Misha outside Nina’s building.
The registration trail is bad, deliberately messy, routed through a company that exists mostly on paper.
The driver has not been identified. The car appears twice on traffic cameras near the Aurelia, but the driver is still unidentifiable.
By six in the evening, I’m in my office dressed for the gala, reading the same report for the third time without absorbing half of it.
I close the file.
Useless.
I stand and put on my jacket, wincing when my shoulder pulls. Mirov taped it again this morning and called me several things my mother would pretend not to understand. The wound is healing, but slowly, and I’m making it worse every time I forget that I’m not as invincible as my reputation suggests.
Nina’s made me forget it often.
I take the private corridor to the executive elevators.
Dima and Sergei are already waiting there with Pavel.
I didn’t ask Pavel to come, but I don’t comment on it immediately. He stands slightly behind the other two, neat as always, dark suit, quiet eyes, phone in hand.
“Car is ready,” Sergei says.
“Route?”
“Primary and two alternates. Traffic is slow near the river, but manageable.”
The elevator dings. The doors open.
Empty.
Nina is not inside.
I check my watch, then hate myself for checking it.
Sergei notices and wisely turns his head.
The next elevator descends from the upper office floors.
The doors open. Nina steps out.
For a moment, no one speaks.
She went with black instead of the green she showed me. Christ, it doesn’t make it any better though.
The dress is simple at first glance, which is exactly why it works.
The neckline is simple, the fabric fits her body without looking like it is trying too hard, and the slit at one side shows enough of her leg to make my jaw tighten before I can stop it.
Her hair is pulled back loosely, a few strands framing her face, and she wears small earrings that catch the light when she moves.
She looks elegant.
I almost wish I had ignored every security concern and come alone.
Then I remember the garage, and the thought dies.
Nina’s eyes find mine immediately, then flick to Dima, Sergei, Pavel, and back again. Her shoulders draw in just a little, not enough for anyone else to read, but I see it.
She’s shy.
That undoes something in me.
She can argue with me in a hallway, lie to her brother with a scarf around her neck, sit on a shelf in an office closet and still tell me I’m a workplace hazard, but now, stepping into the elevator lobby in a dress I bought and did not choose, she looks suddenly unsure.
I walk toward her before I think better of it.
“Is it okay?” she asks, voice low.
“Yes,” I say.
She looks annoyed. “That’s it?”
“You look beautiful.”
Her mouth parts slightly, and then she looks away as if the compliment is too direct.
I hold out my hand.
She glances at the men behind me.
I don’t lower it.
After a second, she places her hand in mine.
Her fingers are cool.
I close mine around them and guide her into the elevator.
The men follow, because they must, but I hate their presence more with every passing second. Nina stands beside me, close enough that the edge of her dress brushes my trouser leg. She keeps her eyes on the elevator doors, but her hand remains in mine.
That small fact helps more than it should.
The elevator descends without stopping.
Pavel’s on his phone. Dima faces the door. Sergei watches the floor numbers. I watch Nina in the reflection of the polished metal doors.
She catches me. Her cheeks warm.
I look away only because she asked for secrecy and I’m trying to honor at least one rule tonight.
When we reach the parking level, the security detail moves first.
I keep Nina behind me until Dima gives the signal.
The garage is brightly lit now. Too brightly. Every corner washed in white light, every pillar monitored, every service door guarded. The concrete has been cleaned. The bullet marks repaired. The blood is gone.
I still see it.
Nina must too, because her fingers tighten around mine.
I look down at her.
Her face is calm, but her eyes have gone to the pillar where I pulled her down that night.
I squeeze her hand once.
She inhales and looks back at me.
Neither of us says anything.
The men guide us to the car. I’m driving tonight because I want control of the route myself, and because I don’t want a driver listening to Nina breathe beside me in that dress. The security detail will follow in a separate car.
Sergei opens the passenger door for her.
Nina pauses before getting in and glances at the men, then at me.
“Wow,” she says softly. “I’m surprised you didn’t bring a whole entourage.”
“I did,” I say. “They are in the second car.”
She gives me a look. “Of course they are.”
“I’m not taking chances this time.”
Her breath catches.
I don’t soften the words. She needs to know I mean them.
“No one gets near you tonight,” I say.
For once, she does not argue. She gets into the car.
I close the door and walk around to the driver’s side. My shoulder protests when I sit, but I ignore it, start the engine, and wait until the security car pulls into position behind us.
Nina buckles her seatbelt and smooths her dress over her thigh.
I notice.
She notices me noticing. “Eyes on the road,” she says.
“We’re not moving yet.”
“Practice.”
I almost smile and pull out of the garage.
For a few minutes, neither of us speaks. The city slides past in evening traffic, lights catching on her earrings whenever she turns her head. She looks out the window, but I can see her reflection faintly in the glass.
She is thinking too much.
So am I.
“What did you tell Misha?” I ask.
She glances at me. “About what?”
“Tonight.”
She shrugs. “Nothing.”
I look at her briefly, then back at the road. “Nothing?”
“He hasn’t been back at the apartment since yesterday.”
My hands tighten on the wheel.
“He left?”
“He came, dropped his bag, interrogated me, insulted my coffee, then disappeared later. I assumed he had work.”
“You assumed.”
She turns toward me. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Actually, I don’t want to get into it right now.”
For a few minutes after we leave the garage, neither of us speaks.
Nina sits beside me in the passenger seat, one hand resting on her lap, the other gripping the edge of her small evening bag.
She keeps looking out the window, but I can see her reflection in the glass.
Her jaw is tense. Her shoulders are too straight.
Every time headlights wash over the windshield, I catch the nerves in her face before she hides them again.
The gala’s making her nervous.
Her fingers tighten around the bag. The dress has shifted where she sits, the slit opening over her thigh. Smooth skin. Bare knee. The fabric riding high enough that I have to force my eyes back to the road.
“You’re nervous,” I say.
“I’m not.”
“You are gripping that bag like it owes you money.”
“It’s expensive. Your card paid for it. I’m protecting your investment.”
“My investment is not the bag.”
She goes quiet.
I let that sit for a moment. Then I reach across the console and place my hand on her thigh.
Her breath catches immediately. “Luka.”
“Relax.”
“That word has never relaxed anyone.”
My thumb moves slowly over her skin. “Try.”
“We’re in a car.”
“I noticed.”
“You’re driving.”
“I also noticed that.”
“And your security is behind us.”
“They cannot see through the seats.”
Her laugh comes out shaky. She looks at the road, then at my hand. “You are insane.”
“No. You are thinking too much.”
“I’m going to a gala with my boss, who I’m secretly sleeping with. Of course I’m thinking too much. This is insane—”
I slide my hand a little higher. Her sentence dies.
The skin under my palm is warm. Soft. Her thighs part a fraction before she catches herself and presses them together again. I almost smile.
“Don’t,” she says.
“I said nothing.”
“You looked like you were about to feel very pleased with yourself.”