I shrug, tipping the doorman as we walk through the front doors. “Merlin asked the Secret Service to float a few different hotel names and go through the process of vetting each one, so that it was impossible to tell which would be picked. He was worried about the Carpathians trying to infiltrate the hotel staff.”
“So you don’t know where you’re staying in a city until you get there?”
“I think this is rare. But Merlin and Ash both worry about the Carpathian president, and they thought this was safer.”
Abilene makes a noise of understanding, and it’s the last time she brings it up.
That night, strung out from jet lag, we get ready for the diplomatic dinner with the Carpathians. The next few days will be filled with negotiations and bickering and barely veiled acrimony, but tonight we’re all supposed to play nice, give the world lots of pretty pictures, maybe a nicely framed shot of Ash shaking Melwas Kocur’s hand. I know how important peace is to Ash, and how tormented he is by the years he spent fighting in Carpathia, so if the one way I can help make this treaty happen is to attend a dinner by his side, then I’m more than happy to do it. But I have no illusions about how congenial or enjoyable the evening will be; I’ve been to enough “bipartisan” events with Grandpa Leo to know that people very rarely lay their swords down for the sake of Italian wine and brandy flambé.
“Is that what you’re wearing?” Abilene asks, stepping out of the bathroom as she fastens her earrings. She’s wearing a skin-tight gold dress with a plunging neckline, her scarlet hair cascading down in sultry waves, and for a moment, the old fear hits me hard. That she’ll always be the sexy one, the lovely one, while I’m stuck as her shadow.
I look down at my dress, a one-shouldered flowing thing, gauzy and with thick bands of intricate detailing around the neckline and hem. It’s a color between white and silver, and I liked the way it set off my naturally golden skin and hair when I tried it on.
But now I’m having doubts. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing,” Abilene says in that voice that means there’s definitely something wrong with it.
I squeeze past her to go into the bathroom to look in the full-length mirror. I mean, compared to Abilene’s long red curls, my up-do does look a little modest. And yes, my dress isn’t form-fitting like hers, but I like the way it flows as it moves, the heavy hem and soft chiffon layers giving the occasional hint of my waist and breasts underneath, not to mention the sheerness of the fabric, which can only be seen in the right light or when the dress moves just so. There’s a very short shift underneath all the layers of chiffon to keep things from getting too scandalous, but overall it’s very sensual, in a muted, diplomatic dinner kind of way.
“It just seems a little flat,” Abilene says. “Did you bring another gown?”
“No,” I say, suddenly having doubts.
“Greer Galloway! You always have a back-up gown! Always, always!” There’s a knock at the door, and Abilene sighs. “I’ll get it.”
I’m still turning and frowning into the mirror when I hear the door open and Ash’s gravelly voice say, “Hello. May I come in?”
I step out of the bathroom to see Abilene standing in front of Ash, staring at him. She’s breathing hard, frozen in place, and for a moment, I have the strangest feeling that she’s going to take a step forward and touch him. That she’s going to try to kiss him.
But she doesn’t. After a few seconds, she steps back and lets him walk inside. When he sees me, he stops, his mouth parted as if he was about to speak and then forgot the words.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, paranoid that his expression means he has all the same doubts about the dress that I now do.
“What’s wrong is that you’re fucking perfect, and I want to have you all to myself tonight,” he growls, stepping forward and caging me against the wall with his arms. I’m acutely aware of Abilene standing right behind him, watching, and I’m also acutely aware that I almost don’t care. “That color makes your eyes look silver. And your skin looks so fucking edible…” He leans down and bites my exposed collarbone, and agonized pleasure spreads through me like a toxin, hijacking my nerve endings and my capacity for higher thought.
But I still manage to put my hands on his chest and give a meaningful glance in Abilene’s direction. She’s turned away, pretending to go through her clutch, but I know she’s as painfully aware of us as my body is of Ash.
Ash looks very much like he doesn’t give a fuck about Abilene being there, but he still drops his arms and takes a step back. “I suppose we should get going,” he says reluctantly.
“We should,” I say, ducking past him to grab my heels and clutch, and as I do, he turns to Abilene.
“You know Embry doesn’t have anyone to walk in with,” he says kindly. “Would you like to walk in with him?”
“Like his date?” Abilene asks. I think I’m the only one who can hear that note of flat panic in her voice, that tug-of-war between pleasing Ash and having to spend the evening with a different man.
“Embry is an excellent date, I promise. Greer can attest to that.”
I send him a sharp look, and he returns it with a mild look of his own.
“Which definition of jealousy did that come from?” I mutter as he opens the hotel door for me.
“All of them.”
* * *
When we arrive at the ballroom where the dinner’s being held, we meet Embry at the door looking cold and resigned in his white tuxedo. But when he sees me, he straightens up and presses his lips together, as if to keep from licking them.
Ash surprises me by spinning me into a little twirl in front of Embry, as if to show me off. “Doesn’t she look divine, Mr. Moore?”
I can tell by the way Embry’s eyes follow me that he’s able to see my body through the dress. “Good enough to eat, Mr. Colchester.”
And my answering shiver has nothing to do with the cold.
“And Abilene is doing a year’s worth of charity and consenting to be your date,” Ash adds. “So you see, we’ll each have a granddaughter of Leo Galloway on our arm tonight.”
Embry smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Wonderful.” He extends an arm to Abilene, who takes it gracefully, although she looks equally miserable. “Shall we begin?”
Ash and I walk behind them, and Ash leans in to whisper, “You’re cruel to wear this in front of Embry, you know.”
“Abilene thought I should change.”
“You look like a goddess. It’s pure torment to be around you in that thing.”
I stroke my fingers up his bicep. “And what would you do if we didn’t have to be here?”
He flashes a wicked smile. “I’ve always wanted to fuck a goddess in the ass.”
I blush so hard that he laughs. “Stop,” I mumble, embarrassed and hot between the legs. “Someone might hear you.”
“You’re the one who started it. And do you really think I’d be the first world leader to fuck someone’s ass? There’s at least two or three English kings who’ve beat me to it.”
I slap his arm, trying to get him to lower his voice. “Well, they didn’t do it to their wives. And they definitely didn’t talk about it in public.”
Ash’s eyes sparkle but there’s a husky catch in his voice when he says, “We really need to raise your comfort level with sodomy. And I can think of a few ways we could start.”
“Also,” I continue in a low voice, making sure my voice doesn’t carry down the long candelabra-lit hallway, “you’re not allowed to stir me up. Because I’m not wearing anything under my dress.”
Ash stops walking, right there in the middle of the hallway. His entire body is a study in masculine interest. “What?”
“It’s for dress-logistic reasons, you pervert. But it does mean I need my body to behave.”
In the blink of an eye, I’m crushed against him, a large hand between my shoulder blades and the other on my ass, pressing my pelvis against his. With my heels, I’m tall enough
to feel his swelling erection right against my mound, and it’s enough to make my knees weaken.
“What’s your safe word?” he asks, his breath hot against my ear. I feel the faint scratch of his jaw against mine—even only an hour after shaving, he has a five o’clock shadow.
“Maxen,” I swallow.
“That’s right. It’s yours to say, yours to use.”
I nod, feeling his face against mine, melting into his searing certainty, his undeniable lust. We’re alone in the hallway save for the Secret Service agents who are staring studiously at the entrances and exits and not at us.
“Good. Now that’s out of the way, know this: your body is mine, and when your body behaves? That means it’s obeying me. If I want your nipples so hard I can see them through your dress or your pussy so wet that you leave a mark on your seat, then you’ll do it. Got it?”
“And what if I don’t?” I murmur in a teasing voice.
He pulls back a little to search my eyes, and then squeezes me when he sees that I’m kidding and not trying to express a limit. “Then maybe we’ll revisit our sodomy conversation earlier than planned.”
“You can’t punish me with something I want.”
“Oh,” he breathes in my ear, “but isn’t that what makes it fun?”
He presses his lips to the sensitive spot behind my ear and then straightens up, taking my hand into the crook of his elbow and starting us down the hallway again. “Just wait until I tell Embry that you aren’t wearing anything underneath that dress.”
“What?”
Ash smirks. “You didn’t really think I’d keep that kind of amazing information away from him, did you?”
I stare at him, puzzled and horrified and—I know, isn’t this always the case?—turned on. “Ash…do you really think that’s fair?”
“Fair to whom?”
“Goddammit, fair to any of us. We still haven’t talked about—”
“And we’re not going to here. We will talk, I promise, and we will navigate all this history between us. But for now, don’t make Embry suffer for loving you. I’m not.”
“He doesn’t love me,” I protest. (A little weakly because, oh, how the thought of him loving me makes my heart beat faster.) And then I remember the men kissing under the mistletoe. Is that included in the history Ash is referencing?
I open my mouth to ask him, to tell him I know, but then we’re at the door to the ballroom and the moment is lost.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Melwas Kocur and his wife Lenka are the last to arrive. They sweep in grandly, like movie stars, and even I have to admit, they look the part. Melwas has dark blond hair and a square jaw, his wide face offset by a strong nose and arrestingly dark eyes, and Lenka is a human doll, bird-boned and delicate with a little pointed chin and bow-shaped lips. But also like a doll, she has glassy, vacant eyes, and when they come up to Ash and me for formal introductions, I see that she’s been crying.
I look back to Melwas and the way his fingers dig into her skinny upper arm, and I see all I need to know.
The introductions are tedious and time-consuming, because there are advisors and Vice Presidents and Cabinet members, and only a few of us speak Ukrainian and only a few of them speak English, and so almost everything has to go through translation. But I was raised to smile and pretend and find common ground and shake hands and quietly spy, and so that’s what I do.
And finally, thankfully, it’s time to sit down and eat. I’m seated next to Lenka, with Melwas on my other side, and Ash next to him. The idea, I suppose, was to give Melwas and Ash ample time to informally converse, but the effect is that I’m sandwiched between a human shell and a man I suspect is a monster.
It’s not pleasant, but again, I was raised for moments like this. I take a drink of wine to preemptively reward myself and then I turn toward Lenka. “Do you speak any English?” I ask.
Her eyes dart up to me, then back down to her plate. She’s barely touched her salad, and a soft roll lies buttered on her plate but uneaten. This makes me profoundly sad for some reason. No matter how dark my life has gotten, I’ve always seen carbs as one of life’s few real gifts.
She finally shakes her head. “No English,” she manages.
“I don’t speak Ukrainian,” I apologize. Dammit, why wasn’t my boarding school education more useful? All those hours translating Cicero and Rousseau, and not a single one focused on any language in the Slavic family tree. “And I suppose you also don’t speak Old English or Middle English then. But maybe…Francais? Deutsch? Latin?”
Lenka’s head snaps up and the faintest pulse of life shows in her eyes. “Ich spreche Deutsch.”
I give her a big smile. “Wunderbar!” Another sip of wine and a decision to forgive Cadbury Academy a little. “My German is very rusty,” I explain to Lenka in German. “I haven’t used it much since college, when I transitioned to medieval languages.”
“I haven’t spoken it in many years either,” Lenka says softly, also in German. I recognize instantly that her accent and pronunciation is much stronger than mine.
“You must have learned it very young. You sound almost like a native speaker.”
Lenka picks up her fork and pokes at her salad. “My grandmother was German. She looked after me while my mother worked, and I grew up speaking both Ukrainian and the language of my mother’s family. But,” she shoots a glance across me to where Melwas and Ash are talking in a mix of Ukrainian and English, “my husband does not like for me to speak in German because he doesn’t understand it.”
“Will it bother him to know we’re speaking in it now?” I ask as gently as I can.
She gives a small nod, swallowing. The action looks almost painful given how slender her neck is.
“But surely he would be proud to know that his wife was performing her diplomatic duties so well,” I say.
She looks confused.
“Think of it. Here you are, charming the soon-to-be First Lady, who will go back to the President of the United States tonight and tell him how kind and intelligent the Carpathians are,” I explain. “You are proving what an asset you are, what special gifts you bring to his position.”
“I did not think of it like that.” She chews her lip for a moment. “But perhaps my husband would not like you to be charmed. He might think that I have undercut his power, his wish to make the Americans afraid of him.”
“Do you want me to act intimidated instead?” I ask honestly. “I can. No one will know but you and I.”
“You’d do that for me?” she asks, those doll-blue eyes disbelieving. “But why?”
“Even if our countries are barely at peace, I think loving a president puts us in a very small club. I think that makes us friends. Don’t you?”
“I don’t know,” she says uncertainly. “I don’t have very many friends.”
I reach under the table and squeeze her small hand. “You have one more tonight.”
And for the first time, I see a tentative smile on her face. It’s gone almost immediately, but it was most definitely there and I reward myself with more wine.
After dinner, there are a few requisite speeches and polite applause, and then the dancing is set to begin. I’m to dance with Melwas and Lenka with Ash, and she’s shaking as we stand up.
“I’m not sure what you’ve heard about my fiancé,” I tell her in German, “but he is very kind. Unfortunately he is a miserable dancer and you will have to protect your feet.”
This wins me another smile. “I will try.” But the smile quickly fades. “My husband…he can be unkind. I am sorry in advance if he’s unkind to you.”
“It’s not your fault if he’s unkind. Nothing he does is your responsibility,” I tell her seriously, searching for precisely the right words in German to express this. “And I promise when it comes to your husband, I can take care of myself.”
“You may think that now,” she says sadly, “but he has a way of getting what he wants when it comes to hurting people.”
And at first, I think she’s wrong. Melwas leads me out on the floor as Ash and Lenka take their positions, and there’s nothing but charm on his face as he takes me in his arms and we begin dancing. In fact, he’s a very good dancer, and for a minute or two, we are so focused on dancing and maintaining smiles for the photographers that we don’t converse. But just as I’m beginning to relax, he speaks.
“You are a very beautiful woman,” he remarks. His English is remarkably clear. “Your President Colchester is a very lucky man.”
“Thank you,” I answer politely. “But I consider myself equally lucky.”
“Do you now?” His wide forehead wrinkles in mock-puzzlement. “But of course! The great American hero, the soldier no one could defeat. They say that America never lost a battle when he was there on the battlefield. Is that true?”
I don’t like where this conversation is going. “You tell me if it’s true,” I say, pleasantly enough to mask the challenge in the words.
“You know, he and I once fought face to face,” Melwas says, steering me expertly into an elaborate spin. There’s impressed applause around us as he guides me back into place. “A small village called Glein. And he was willing to let a church full of civilians burn that day. That doesn’t sound very heroic to me, but then again, maybe you Americans care more about winning than how you win.”
I can’t help the itchy hot indignation that prickles across my skin, and frankly, I don’t want to help it. “Are you saying their deaths are on President Colchester’s hands and not on the men who shot them? On the men who lit a boat full of children on fire?”
To my surprise, Melwas smiles widely. “You’ve got spirit in you. I like that in a woman.”
I think of Lenka and seriously doubt that.
“So if you were there,” I continue, “were you the one who gave the order? Did you personally shoot any of the civilians? Set fire to that boat?”
“Do you think I’m such a monster?”
Modern Fairy Tale: Twelve Books of Breathtaking Romance Page 46