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I’ve never been the kind of man to turn down that sort of offer. And just now, I know it’s what I need to take the edge off. Lidiya is safely in her room and I know she’s not going anywhere—there’s no purpose in her leaving. She knows what happens if she does.
“I’m always partial to a multi-course meal.” I grin at her, and she returns the smile, sliding off the barstool as she waits for me expectantly.
“Well, we shouldn’t let it get cold, then.”
As we walk to the elevator, though, I feel a knot of apprehension in my gut—something that almost feels like guilt. It’s not the sweet, stirring anticipation that I’m used to, when I’m headed upstairs with a beautiful woman.
I know what she wants, when we get into the elevator. As it climbs, she glances over at me, as if expecting me to step forward and pin her to the wall, tangle my hand in her perfectly styled blonde hair and drag her mouth to mine. Ishouldbe doing that. I can see it in my mind’s eye, what that would look like.
But I can also see Lidiya.
What the fuck is wrong with you, Volkov? She’s a job. It doesn’t matter if you fuck one woman or a dozen while she’s here.
I tell myself that the guilt is from allowing myself to be distracted. I can tell that Elizabeth is a touch peeved that I didn’t try to make out with her in the elevator, but she steps out as the elevator doors open, her room key already in her hand as she walks crisply down the hall, her high heels sinking slightly into the carpet.
“Well? Are you coming in?” She taps her key against the door, pushing it open. “Or are you going to stand out there in the hallway? I can always go downstairs and find someone who’s more interested.”
I know it’s meant to bait me, to get me to showexactlyhow interested I am. I’m surprised at myself for not taking the bait. I like beautiful women, and I like beautiful, mouthy women, and Elizabeth is proving herself to be both. But I can’t stop thinking about Lidiya.
Worse, I can’t stopworryingabout her.
“I think I’ve changed my mind.” I take a step back, giving her an apologetic half-smile. “Best of luck with finding the more interested party, though.”
I catch the expression on her face that tells me she’s more than a little pissed off, but I’m already heading back to the elevator. I head straight up to the room, tapping my key against the door and cracking it open slightly as I peer inside, not wanting to wake Lidiya by bursting in if she’s sleeping.
She is. The room is dark other than the light from the television, flickering across the rumpled bed. There’s a room service cart next to it, a napkin flung over a plate with the remnants of some French fries on it, and a half-drunk glass of champagne. When I look a little more closely, I see that there’s an emptybottle, and I feel a flicker of guilt as I look at Lidiya, curled on her side facing away from me. She’d undoubtedly gotten drunk up here alone, trying not to think about what she was going to have to do very soon.
That’s the job. That’s not your concern. Haven’t you had to do plenty of things that you haven’t wanted to?
I reach out, nudging the room service cart aside as I reach out to tug the blankets up over her. She stirs briefly, and for a moment I think she’s going to wake and see what I’m doing. It almost makes me pull back, because the last thing I need is for there to be any closeness between us. I’m still kicking myself for that night sitting in the bed eating room service and watching tv together. Lidiya can’t think that I’m her friend, that I’m here to help her. She has to understand the danger she’s in, or this could all go badly very quickly.
Gently, I nudge the covers around her and step back, glancing at the tray to see if there’s any food left. All I see are the fries, and I don’t want to wake her by calling for more, so I swipe a handful as I retreat to the couch, carefully opening the minibar on my way to grab a couple of shots of vodka.
The irony isn’t lost on me that I’m sleeping on the uncomfortable couch in my own hotel room, drinking vodka straight from the minibar and snacking on cold fries, while my mark is sleeping comfortably in the bed drunk on expensive champagne. But I can’t find it in myself to be angry about it.
What she has to do tomorrow night isn’t an easy thing. I won’t pretend that it is, even if I also know that she has no choice. And that, above all, is the reason she needs me with her.
Other men wouldn’t have that same sympathy for her. And she needs all the sympathy she can get right now.
I grit my teeth against another wave of jealousy as I think of where she’ll be tomorrow night, forcing myself to stop thinking of it. It will do neither of us any good. The job is clear, and she needs me to be the one to push her forward, so that she has no other way out.
And then, when it’s over?
I’ll never see her again.
Lidiya
Idon’t know if I’ve ever hated anything quite as much as I hate getting ready for my date with Grisha. Levin is downstairs at the bar while I do, citing giving me some privacy, but deep down I think he just doesn’t like me going out with Grisha. He’s been tense and irritable since I set the date yesterday, which is totally at odds with what makes sense—he’sthe one forcing me into this, and yet he’s acting like an aggrieved boyfriend.
Whatever. I don’t have it in me right now to figure out what stick my captor has up his—excessively nice and well muscled—ass. I’m about to have to go eat dinner and make conversation with a man I’d gone from loving to hating in the space of a day, possibly sleep with him, and try to strike up a relationship with him again, all while trying to covertly pick up information about his potential involvement with money laundering, drugs, and a Mexican cartel.
It’s enough to make me sick with nerves. I try to just focus on getting ready, but that doesn’t really help. Everything is carefully curated to attract Grisha and make him want to get back together with me as much as possible—which might be easier than I thought after the conversation we had yesterday. He seemed eager to mend things, which is either how he really feels, or a trap because he knows I’ve been compromised.
I’m terrified it’s the latter.
I take a shower, enjoying the luxurious hotel bath products to their fullest, washing my hair and shaving until there’s not a speck of body hair left on me. Once I’m finished, I run mousse through my hair, throw it up in a towel and slather myself in the jasmine-scented lotion Grisha bought for me. He said he loved the scent, and I loved the product itself—it feels heavenly going on, thick and rich and turning my skin that the cold weather always makes feel dry to silk instantly. Now I resent every swipe of it over my body. I’d rather use the honey and almond scented hotel lotion, but I don’t dare. I don’t personally have money for things like scented lotion and perfume, and Grisha might notice I smell different.
These are the things I have to worry about now—any small slip, no matter how inconsequential it might seem, might give away that I’m no longer freezing to death in my shabby apartment but living in a five-star hotel room with some kind of Russian operative intent on finding dirt on Grisha.
