by Audrey Noire
“Men like you don’t watch their wives dress. They’re too busy smoking cigars and talking about all the money they have.” The dress pooled silkily on the floor as she stepped into it and pulled it up her figure delicately- there was no way she wanted any snags or lost sequins before the night had even begun.
“Mmm, the reason we are having marital problems in the first place, yes?” he asked, and then with another brush of air current he was right behind her, his fingers tugging gently at the back of her dress. She let out a breath and was about to snap at him to cut out the games when he murmured, “the zipper was going to catch on your slip. Let me-” She felt him slowly, so slowly, pull the zipper tab up her back, tracing the gentle slope of her spine. His knuckles traced a heated line through her slip, preceding the zipper as it went. The dress settled over her shoulders, feeling heavy with all the beading, something like armor. His fingers just brushed the back of her neck for a moment, a ghostly touch she barely felt, and then he was gone, at the door, clearing his throat. “How much longer do you need? Not even my sister would take this long.”
The sensitive skin at the nape of her neck was still tingling from his touch, the effect he’d had on her having taken her fully by surprise. It’s just nerves for tonight, she thought, pre-op jitters. Rykov warned you about this, so get ahold of yourself, and she exhaled to calm herself.
“I’m almost ready, ass, just let me put on my shoes. Don’t forget your jacket, you’re not even done yourself yet.” She looked down at her suitcase, pulling out the pair of heels that would bring her eyes up above his shoulder (he was tall, she was short, but her slight height and stature made for a more likely escape in the event of an emergency if he had to fireman carry her out of a bad situation), and when she glanced at the door he was gone, presumably finishing with his own prep. She bent and wiggled her heels on, before walking out of the bedroom. The shoes, at least, were comfortable for ones that were taller than she normally bothered with. Chucks and cute ballet flats were her mainstay, but Rykov had hammered into her the art of walking like a delicate butterfly in stilettos.
Nicolai was standing by the mirror at the door, straightening his tie and then fastening his cufflinks before he turned to look at her. An odd frown crossed his face before vanishing, and she clutched a little tighter at the beaded and fringed purse that was tangled in her one hand. During training he’d alternated between joking around with her and giving her the cool-silent treatment, and never once had he even flirted with her despite his reputation for being a total man-whore. If he made a practice of eye-fucking everything with legs, that moment in the bedroom where he’d eyed her up as she put on her makeup had been the first she’d seen of it being directed at her. She wasn’t sure how she felt about it either, since they had a job to do, and personas to fill, he was probably just getting a jump start on their whole love-you-hate-you marriage facade. He lifted a long velvet box off the black-marble counter and flipped it open. Inside a single strand of diamonds set in a matching rose-gold to her ring lay on a bed of cream silk, and he lifted it out with gentle fingers, mindful of the hidden camera and microphone contained within the centre diamond. He motioned for her to turn.
“Really? I’ve been dressing myself for at least 23 years, I think I can handle-” her words cut off with a yip when he blurred and was behind her, pulling the necklace around her neck and fastening it.
“I am faster,” he said, and for the second time that evening (and what she hoped would be the last), the skin on the back of her neck shivered and tingled at his nearness. It was annoying.
“Fine, got it. Fast. Let’s go, at a more leisurely pace though. I’m not ripping my dress unless we’re making a grand escape.” She moved to the door, but of course he was there already, opening it for her and offering her his arm. At the first hint of light from the hall, she fell into her role, and clasped her hand lightly on his forearm. He smiled down at her, pouring on the charm, and she didn’t have to act with the way her body was warming just in his presence. He was damn good at his job, had the smoulder of a husband in his eyes and everything. He lead her out, the door clicking shut behind them as they made their way to the elevators.
“Let us try to enjoy ourselves this weekend, darling,” he said smoothly, voice a low purr as another couple approached from down the hall. He reached out to press the button, and smiled at the elderly gentleman and his very young wife that met them there. Daria thought the girl was younger than her, and wondered for one ridiculous moment if her older husband had traded in for a newer model (most definitely given the size of the rock on the woman’s finger), and if looking at her and Nicolai made him think of his first wife who had been long discarded. She must’ve clenched her hand on Nicolai’s arm, because he shot her a look, his eyebrow barely raising in concern. She loosened her grip as the elevator came.
“I love your dress,” gushed the other woman suddenly as they stepped into the elevator. “It’s a Temperly, right? I adore them. Eldrich says he may as well buy shares in their parent company what with all the money I’ve been giving them, he might get some cash back from the dividends.”
Daria smiled at her blandly, and looked down, skimming a finger over one of the longer paillettes draped over the curve of her hip. The woman’s husband eyed her for a moment and then glanced at Nicolai with an amused and patronizing expression as the floors ticked down.
“Oh, this thing,” Daria said with a bored sigh, “it was a surprise for our six month wedding anniversary.” She petted loosely at Nicolai’s chest with her fingertips, as if she didn’t care to touch him all that closely. As they exited the elevator, Nicolai murmured in her ear, just loudly enough for the other man to hear,
“It would have looked better on the bedroom floor than on you, if you would have bothered to come home that night.” His blue eyes were bright and intense in his face, the picture of a sexually frustrated and thwarted husband. It took her breath away for a moment, and for a split second she wondered how much of that basic want in his expression was real and how much was the game they were playing. She looked away to gather her thoughts. They walked down the open hallway to the ballroom for that evening’s wine tasting and informal meet and greet with the other conference attendees.
“Talk like that and you won’t be seeing it on the floor tonight either,” she finally hissed back, and was pleased to see the couple they’d come down with beating a hasty trail to get out of the bubble of domestic dispute brewing between her and Nicolai. She could do this, she had a handle on it, and so did Nicolai apparently… a few minutes in and she was already relaxing into the role easily, and was proud that he was as well. Unless something major came up, and both Balfour and Rykov hadn’t expected anything to, she thought they could totally pull this off as a successful first mission together. They’d behave themselves once they got in the room, but the marital tension would give them an excuse to part company throughout the night when they needed to.
A long bar was set up at the far end of the ballroom, and Daria made a beeline for it the moment Nicolai peeled away from her to join a cluster of older businessmen near the entrance. Once she had a cocktail firmly in her hand (virgin, although none of the glitterati would know because the bartender was an ARC operative planted there), she idly milled through the crowd of dark suits and glittering dresses until she found her husband again. He was talking in furtive tones with an elderly gent wearing what had to be a $50,000 suit, given the diamond-adorned cufflinks he was sporting that probably out-valued even the suit itself (she’d totally aced the mini-course on pricing garments and accessories during basic training). Daria wondered how much pent up rage was boiling in Nicolai’s gut, since he had a more Marxist view of what defined a bourgeoisie. Growing up eating plain spaghetti and only being allowed to turn the heat on a few hours a day had given him a general disdain for the haves since his family had been so very much one of the have-nots, at least from what he’d told her the few times they’d spoken of family.
“Ah, there she is- Mila, please come meet my new dear friend, Mr. Bouvier. Mr. Bouvier, my wife, Mrs. Daria Dushku,” Nicolai smiled at her more affectionately than before, placing his broad hand on the small of her back and urging her forward. She surged a little into Mr. Bouvier’s personal space, and held out her hand to shake it. She knew his face from the profiles, he specialized in moving high-priced goods for leaders of the free and not-so-free world, and by goods the dossier had meant designer drugs, exotic wildlife, and sex slaves. Her skin was crawling before he ever touched her. The older man grabbed her fingers none-too-gently and hauled them up towards his mouth, planting a bristling and wet kiss onto the back of her hand. She tensed for a microsecond and then relaxed, as smiling warmly as she was able to.
“Mrs. Dushku, your husband was just telling me how you went to Brown. My daughter is there, perhaps you know her? Emily Bouvier?” He finally let her hand go. The name of course, didn’t ring a bell and she smiled, looking over at her husband and laughing lightly.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t know her. The last year of my time at Brown was honestly spent in a cloud because of this guy.” She tugged lightly at Nicolai’s tie and then smoothed it down over his chest, ducking her head against his shoulder, suddenly the picture of an adoring wife. Internally she cursed herself. She was supposed to be bait, a desperate housewife that a lonely old man would take interest in, loosen his tongue around and talk a little too freely about business dealings. She had a damn job to do. But for some reason she couldn’t, in the heat of the moment, let herself be manhandled by someone she didn’t know. Nicolai was warm against her and surprisingly comforting, his hand shifting to curve around the side of her waist. Maybe he had anticipated her becoming uncomfortable. She exhaled slowly and tried to get her shit together. She was not going to blow this. She was not going to let her team down. Nicolai was an anchor, and she was gripping on tight to him.
“Yes, I believe we spent most of that year talking on the phone than focusing on studies and business,” Nicolai said, looking down at her with such adoration in his expression that her heart skipped a beat. Dammit. They were supposed to be having marital problems, not be besotted with each other, but it wasn’t like she could be mad at him, he was only following her lead. His hip was firmly planted against the dip of her waist, and he took her free hand, kissing the back of it softly. It erased the feel of Mr. Bouvier’s grey whiskers on her skin, and she had a hard time not melting in Nicolai’s embrace. Fine, the game was changed, the plan was changed, Balfour and Rykov would just have to forgive them. Well, Balfour was always harping about how strategy was an overall game plan, whereas tactics were how you actually fought on the ground. This was just a change-up of their tactics. Maybe playing a less shrew-like wife would attract more old men to her honey. Or something.
“Oh, you,” she said teasingly as Mr. Bouvier cleared his throat with a low chuckle, and when she caught the older man’s eye she noticed there was considerably more heat in it than there’d been before. Well, that was something. She took a long sip of her drink, grateful that it was nearly gone. “I’m almost out-”
“I will get you another,” Nicolai said, plucking the glass out of her nerveless fingers and looking at Mr. Bouvier, “please keep my wife company? There are too many attractive single men here. I will get you a drink as well. What are you having?” The older man laughed, heartily, and clapped Nicolai on the back before giving him his drink order. Nicolai moved sedately away, at a pace that Daria knew must’ve just been killing him. As soon as he was ten feet away, Mr. Bouvier closed in on her. Still good enough as bait, she thought, as he put an overly warm and sweaty hand on her wrist, thumb and finger clasping around it. He stroked slow circles on the inside over her pulse, right on the skin. Her throat contracted in a bad way and she looked up at him through her lashes, not wanting to tilt her head up as he hovered in her space in case he lost his mind and decided to kiss her. God, she did not want to even think about that.
“Dushku, in line to the Dushku shipping throne,” he murmured and bent his head to talk into the crown of her hair, “excellent choice for a starter husband, but I believe you can do better.”
Good lord, he smelled like expensive booze and some sort of cloying vanilla musk cream that overwhelmed her in all the wrong ways. She took a moment, trying to get used to the scent of him before she could speak.
“I thought I was the starter wife,” she blurted out, flustered and feeling an uncomfortable blush crawling up the back of her neck. She fluttered her eyelashes prettily to hide the fact she really wanted to stab the man in the solar plexus, because murderous thoughts had a tendency to manifest themselves on her expression if she wasn’t careful or so Rykov had said. The man edged ever closer to her, until she could feel his knee sliding against the side of hers, stroking right above it and brushing against her thigh. Her breath hitched in her throat as panic set in and she wrestled with herself to stay calm and focused.
“Women like you start at the bottom but always rise to the top, my dear. He would be a fool to trade you in.” His fingers were under her chin, and he was lifting her face up, a millimeter at a time until she was looking at him. He had eyes that were just black pools, she realized, dark and cold. A tremble ran through her, and he smiled, predatory and hungry. Every nerve in her body screamed to get away, but she merely smiled as if dazzled and flattered by his words and prayed that Rykov’s training would hold.
“Such pretty compliments, I hardly know how to respond,” she said breathlessly, and he chuckled as he bought into the idea that she was actually interested in him and his unfortunate paunch.
“I’ve got an idea or two, but I left them up in my hotel room. Perhaps you would join me later to review the list?” His words were like oil over her skin, unpleasant and slowly crawling to cover her everywhere. She felt the immediate need to scrape her nails over her flesh and have a long, brutal hot shower.
“My husband-” she deflected, and Mr. Bouvier looked beyond her, stepping out of her space just slowly enough to send a message that he controlled the little encounter she’d been trapped in. Daria wondered if he personally tried out the women he sold to European bankers and South American drug lords- he’d taken no great liberties with her but she’d felt entirely consumed by him in the few short minutes she’d been in his grip.
“Has returned with our drinks, such a thoughtful young man. I haven’t met your father, Mr. Dushku, but you are clearly a credit to him.” Mr. Bouvier held out a hand for his drink, and Nicolai passed it off to him. When Nicolai turned to Daria, she reached for her drink, but Nicolai, picture of grace and agility, Nicolai who never fell over anything, dropped anything, stubbed an elbow or a toe, spilled her drink right down the front of her dress. Ice chips plinked against the paillettes, and cold liquid sloshed right through the mesh and soaked into her slip. The fabric immediately stuck to her skin and she cringed at the feel of the wet satin hugging right into her bellybutton and over her curves.
“Oh, Mila, I am so sorry, I did not-” Nicolai produced a silk handkerchief out of his suit pocket and dabbed at her chest delicately, “I know how you loved this dress, I am so clumsy sometimes.” Her cheeks flushed as the warmth of his fingers seeped through the fine fabric over her cleavage and she tried to bat him away shyly.
“It’s fine, it’s fine, Nicolai…” She shivered as Mr. Bouvier watched them with one eyebrow cocked, bemused and slightly annoyed expressions warring on his face. Nicolai shot him a bright smile.
“My lovely wife is forever telling me to be more careful. I nearly broke my leg last year when we were hunting in South Africa. Is it ruined, love, is the dress-?” He fluttered over her, the picture of a concerned husband doting on a treasured trophy wife. She bit the inside of her lip and hoped that her thoughts of what the hell are you doing weren’t showing, and smiled weakly.
“I think if I go change, it should be fine, dry cleaners at hotels are so good these days.”
“Mm, yes, they are,” Mr. Bouv
ier said flatly, lifting his head and looking at someone before walking away from them both, “Charles, it is so good to see you…”
Daria breathed out in relief when he left their orbit, and Nicolai grabbed onto her upper arm suddenly, curling her into him.
“I will take you upstairs, Mila, I am so sorry about the dress,” he said, sounding contrite, but his eyes were hard in his face as he tugged her through the crowd, leading her to the door. She almost stumbled after him, he was so quick. Once they were out in the hallway, she yanked back her arm, twisting it out of his grip. He rounded on her, his normally cheerful expression dark.
“What the hell was that,” she hissed under her breath. He shook his head and looked to the elevators.
“You must be cold, let us go up to our rooms,” his words were duller, no hint of the sweet caring husband that had just been coveting her in the ballroom. She grit her teeth and threw up her hands, marching towards the elevators and letting him catch up. The jerk blew so hot and cold she could never figure him out. He’d been the one to spill drink all down her dress and end the night’s espionage, not her, so she had no idea why he was being such a fucking dick about it. She steamed all the way up to the room and burst into the bedroom without a word to him, slamming the door behind her and leaving him in the living room by himself.
She stripped off the dress and kicked $8000 worth of mesh and sequins across the floor, and yanked herself out of the slip. The delicate satin held up to her rough treatment and quickly followed the dress. Outside she heard a door open and close, and a low agitated voice murmuring. They’d fucked the op, she knew, that evening was supposed to be the night to make acquaintances and cement Nicolai’s position as a young shipping executive. It was a persona he would’ve been able to use again and again.