Page 63 of Mistaken
Halfway through my book(Indian Arranged Marriages: A Social Psychological Perspective),Maksim sits across from me, where Yuri sat on our way to St. Petersburg and shared a bit about the horrors of their childhood. The lines of tension radiating out from his eyes look even deeper than they had when he left the house this morning.
“How are you?” He’s rubbing his forehead.
“I’m fine,” I said. I know I should leave it there. But no, my big mouth cannot stop. “But you’re… things are pretty bad, huh?”
Oh, there we go. He haughtily stares at me, his blue eyes chilly. “It’s none-”
“-of my concern, I know.” I’m being pissy and I’m sure I’ll pay for it. But for a few moments yesterday when we were analyzing the creepy appearance of that lunatic Katya and her ginormous Kazakhstani, I felt like I had something to offer. It felt like he might have valued my opinion. It made the fall back to American Mail Order Bride that much more painful. He’s so beautiful, this heartless Russian. I can’t look at him anymore without wanting to cry, so I stand, gathering all of my travel rubble. “I’m just going to sleep in the bedroom, all right?”
He pauses long enough that I’m forced to look at him. “Very well. Get some rest.”
No crying, you big baby,I thought angrily.No crying here.
Maksim…
Yuri and I had gone over any crumbs of information garnered from the dark web about the hiring of so many mercenaries. While we still couldn’t narrow down who was behind it, there was more concerning news, it looked like even more soldiers of fortune were being hired daily.
“I’ve already got some program searches running on some of the biggest Swiss banks and offshore accounts,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “The money trail will lead us to them sooner, or later.”
“Here is hoping for sooner,” Ilya said, rubbing his eyes. He was a big man, arms covered in ink. His hair had only just turned silver, even though he’d served as a key advisor under my father as well. Ilya was one of the few I’d retained from his inside circle. He was steady and had a calming influence when the discussions got heated. “We have two locations ready for you to approve to replace the warehouse in St. Petersburg. Stateside? We are still searching.”
Standing, I rolled my shoulders feeling the muscles creak. “Thank you for your hard work, gentlemen. Why don’t you all try to get some rest? We have a challenging week ahead of us.” Yuri is looking at me with mild surprise, and I tilt my head, inviting him to walk with me. “Why the expression?”
He grinned, impertinent????????? ??????.“I haven’t heard you thank your advisory council in… I can’t remember you ever thanking your advisory council, in fact.”
Glaring at him, I pour another drink before rubbing the back of my neck. “I can still send you to the shit dock warehouse to work.”
Yuri burst out laughing. “No surprise that no one is willing to get near that warehouse, not even to torch it.”
“Hmm,” I glance at the closed bedroom door.
“Why don’t you get some rest as well?” He nods at the door, then back at me. He’s bright enough to not add any impertinent remarks this time.
The bedroom is cool and quiet. No clouds of cigar smoke, no men needing answers. Just my bride, who is curled up into a little ball in the center of the bed. Taking off my shoes, I get in behind her, putting my arm around her waist, and pulling her closer. With a relieved groan, I bury my face in her mass of sweet-smelling hair, and breathing in deeply, I manage to fall asleep.
No bad dreams tonight.
Chapter 18 – Tickle Torture and the Real Thing
In which the hits just keep on coming. Also, so does Ella.
Ella…
There’s a change in the engines, a shift that wakes me up. Am I really experienced enough now in fancy jet travel that I can tell these things? I guess so, because a peek out the window shows the ocean beneath us, and a bank of bright lights ahead of us spreading as far as I can see. That has to be New York.
The second thing I notice is that Maksim is wrapped around me like the best body pillow ever. My back is toasty warm from this human blast furnace and not for the first time, I wonder how such a cold, composed man from the most glacial spot on the globe can be so gloriously hot to the touch. His hand slipped under my shirt at some point and his long fingers were spread, pressing against my stomach. He’s still asleep, but his fingers flex slightly against me and I wonder why they’re so rough, calloused. You’d think that a billionaire crime lord like Maksim would have soft, pampered hands. He was too high up in his organization to do any dirty work. I tentatively rest my hand on top of his. Knowing what I do about him by now though, there’s no question he enjoys getting his hands dirty. But maybe it’s a good leadership position, the whole, “I won't ask you to do something I won’t do myself,” style of management.
The thought makes me chuckle silently, but the movement was enough to wake him.
“What’s making you laugh?” Maksim asked, not moving. His face was buried in my hair and I can feel his hot breath against my skin.
Answering with, “Your management style,” seemed to invite more questions than needed, so I shrugged. “Your fingers are a little ticklish.”
Those long, elegant fingers of his twitched on my stomach. “These fingers?”
I squirmed, trying to move away.
Maksim tickled me along my horribly sensitive ribs. “These fingers,?????????”
