Page 66 of Lord of the Underworld

Ivan gives Vadim a quick glance before he laughs, shaking his head. "I've served your husband for many years. I still think he would kill me if I took this opportunity away from you.'

"Oh, he wouldn't kill you," I say. We both look at Vadim. "He really wouldn't." I sound less convinced.

The gun, though. It's seated perfectly in my hand and the balance is good, a little lighter than a standard handgun, but not by much. Ivan hands Vadim and me ear protection, and then we sight our targets. I watch jealously as he pushes a button, sending his paper target almost double the distance from mine.

"Show off," I mumble. He ignores me.

"Ready?" he asks. We raise our guns together. "Three, two, one."

The pistol comes alive in my hands. No aggressive kick back. Just a smooth pull of the trigger and the bullet soars towards the target hitting perfectly, center mass, right over the heart.

"Well done," Vadim whispers, his breath puffing in my ear, making me shiver. Another push of the button and both targets return to pause in front of the firing booths, and my mouth drops open.

There's a neat, round circle on his target. Four bullet holes. In the head. "You fired four bullets in the time it took me to fire one?" I ask incredulously.

Vadim eyes his target expressionlessly, then turns to mine, looking at it with pride. "Well done, wife." He lifts his hand, running his thumb gently over my lips, his usual polar blue eyes are warm. I want to go up on tiptoe and kiss him, slip my fingers into his hair and grab a fistful... Remembering just in time that we have an audience, I sigh and step back.

At home, then. The minute we get home I am attacking him like a starving man attacks a prime rib dinner.

Chapter Thirty

In which this is the best Christmas ever.

Vadim…

Christmas Eve…

"Are you certain you don't want to spend the U.S. Christmas with the Morozovs?" My cousins have issued several invitations to join them in New York for the holiday, and I left it up to Oksana to decide.

She's fussing with the bows on the gifts arranged under the tree. When she said she wanted a Christmas tree, I did not know that she'd come home with her new bodyguards, Lavr and Marlen, staggering under the weight of a pine so enormous that it brushes the twenty-foot-high ceiling of the entryway. I found another tree in the library where we spend most of our time, and a third nestled next to the windows in our bedroom as well.

"No, I like it being just us," she says, going back on her knees and surveying the gift arrangement, which must be off, because she rearranges them. "Are you certain you're all right with how much Christmas I've thrown at you? I know we talked about a tree."

There are swags of boughs and tiny lights lining the halls and arranged on every fireplace mantel. Wreaths decorate the doors and there's a forest of poinsettias scattered along every tabletop. Oksana must have deforested half of Illinois to pull this much greenery together.

I let my gaze sweep the library, then raise my brow. She has the grace to look chagrined. "I might have gone overboard," she admits.

Helping her stand up, I take advantage of the moment to kiss her. "I don't mind. It looks nice."

Oksana understands me well enough now to know that I don't care about the sentimentality of the holidays and she doesn't have any driving ambition to change me. What I do enjoy, is watching her be happy about the decor and the "perfect Christmas Eve" snow falling outside.

"Thank you," she says, wrapping her arms around my neck. "The best part of this holiday is that I get you all to myself."

"Hmm…" I agree absently, my hands sliding over the curves of her waist and hips. My bride is wearing a silky, dark green sweater. It's tight, and I suspect she's not wearing a bra.

"Vadim?" I bring my gaze back up to her amused one. "You're sneaking a peek down my sweater, aren't you?"

The half smile I give her is unrepentant. "Yes."

"Do you think that you could dance with me while you decide whether or not I'm wearing a bra?" she asks.

For the first time, I pay attention to the music piping through the speakers. It's an instrumental version of, "I'll Be Home for Christmas."

"We haven't danced since our wedding reception, have we?" I ask, and her eyes light up.

"We haven't."

Sliding my arm around her waist and bringing her closer, I take her left hand. We move together, more swaying than stepping, as I gaze at my wife's beautiful face.