Okay. Wasn’t expecting that.
“Jesus Christ.” I yanked the purse closed and shoved it away. “Do you even know how to use that?”
Her mouth tugged upward in satisfaction. “Many of my father’s byki are ex-military. And how to shoot wasn’t the only thing I learned from them.”
I almost asked if she had fucked any of them. Demanded to know. Because God knew they wanted to fuck her. What man wouldn’t? And what else had the bastards taught her?
But knowing she wouldn’t tell me if I asked, I kept my mouth shut. Why did I even care anyway? Her sexual history was none of my business, just like I wasn’t going to lay mine out in detail for her.
After all, it wasn’t like we were fucking.
“You would actually pull the trigger if someone came at you?” I asked, unconvinced.
Her head reared back. “Is that a serious question? I wouldn’t carry that bloody thing around if I wasn’t prepared to use it. I learned that lesson once already.”
I felt my features harden to granite. I really didn’t like the way that sounded. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
She waved me off, looking frustrated that she’d let the comment slip. “Nothing. Doesn’t matter.”
My hand shot out to grasp her wrist just as she picked up the wine glass. The glass froze in mid-air, her eyes widening at the lightning fast movement. My fingers circled her delicate bones in an unyielding grip.
“Tell. Me,” I commanded through gritted teeth.
Her chest heaved as her breathing turned ragged, but I couldn’t get a read on what was causing that reaction. When our gazes connected, it felt like the space between us became electrified. The air over the table crackled with some kind of charged energy. My thumb was right over her pulse point, so I knew exactly how fast it had quickened.
“Let me go first,” she whispered in a softer voice than I expected.
Breathing deeply through my nose, I let my fingers slide free. The knot in my neck returned as tension began to spread through my shoulders and down my spine.
“It was years ago,” she said, shifting around in her chair. “I was on a photo shoot in Puerto Vallarta. We’d wrapped things up early that day, so some of us went out for drinks. I’d been posting pictures of us on Instagram all night, tagging every bar we went to.” She huffed humorlessly. “I was young and stupid.”
Anger simmered just beneath the surface, making it difficult to push words out. “What happened, legs?”
She was purposely avoiding eye contact as she looked over the wall out at the water. “Some guy had been watching my feed closely all night. He eventually tracked me down at the last bar we went to and followed me back to our hotel.”
My fists clenched on the table when she stopped again. “Finish the damn story, Lexi.”
She exhaled a frustrated breath. “He tried getting inside my hotel room, okay? He’d even brought bolt cutters with him to cut through the security chain.”
I gnashed my teeth, an involuntary response. I’d react that way hearing about any man who tried to attack a woman. It certainly wasn’t because this particular woman had been in danger.
It wasn’t.
“Did he?” The question cracked like a whip through the air. “Did he get inside?”
She swallowed thickly. And nodded. “I was huddled in the corner across the room when he broke through. He stopped when he saw the gun in my hands. But I couldn’t pull the trigger for some reason. Even as he was professing his love for me and spouting his crazy all over the place, I hadn’t been able to do it. Luckily, hotel security burst in before he could call my bluff. But I swore after that day that I’d never hesitate again.”
I needed a name.
I needed a name and an address so I could track the motherfucker down and feed him his own dick, right after I cut it off with a rusty blade.
Fuck.
I hadn’t felt rage like this in a long time.
All it took was picturing Lexi cowering in the corner of her small hotel room as some psychotic twat—who had fuck knows what planned for her—broke down the door and scared her half to death. I could picture her hand shaking as she pointed her gun at him, not knowing what to do. I could see the tears in her eyes, her lower lip trembling. She had more strength now, I could tell. But any woman in that situation, no matter how tough she was, would have been terrified.
“Was he arrested?” I bit out. “Charged?”
“He was arrested. But I didn’t hang around long enough to hear if he was charged. I got out of that city as fast as I could. I haven’t posted anything online in real time since. I’ll wait two or three days before posting anything that would point to my actual location.”
Which was why she hadn’t posted any of the pictures she’d taken that morning.
“I’m guessing you never got his name.”
Her attention jerked back to me. I was nearly shocked out of my chair whenever the corner of her mouth tipped up in what could have resembled amusement. “Why? You going to defend my honor five years later?”
Absolutely, I would.
And I’d do a hell of a lot more than that.
“Maybe I just don’t appreciate it when justice isn’t served,” I hedged. “Especially when it involves a man hurting a woman.”
Her eyes turned assessing, her fingers drumming against the table’s surface. “I didn’t peg you as the hero type.”
“I’m not.”
“Then what are you? The villain?”
“Depends on the story.” I nailed her to her chair with my intent gaze. “And the rest of the cast.”
She paused, acting as if she wanted to stop this line of questioning but couldn’t force herself to. “What about our story?”
Emotional distance. Always.
I was basically an impenetrable fortress on a deserted island. No woman had breached my walls in thirty-three years because I never lowered them, never raised the gate, never showed any weakness. Lexi was going to stay on the other side of that wall if it killed me. No matter how curious I was about the woman, no matter how intriguing I thought parts of her personality were. There was no point in getting too close when our story was going to end without a satisfying conclusion.
Fake marriages didn’t have happily ever afters.
You don’t read that shit in the Brothers Grimm.
“I’m not the enemy, legs,” I told her pointedly. “But I’m not a friend either. I’m just the guy who’s going to keep you safe until it’s no longer necessary for me to do so. If nothing else, you can at least trust that.”
“Is that your honor talking? Sounds kind of heroic to me.”
She couldn’t think I was a hero. She’d only be disappointed when she found out the truth.
Shut her down.
“I never renege on a deal,” I said flatly. “By protecting you, I’m holding up my end. Simple as that.”
I barely managed to hide a flinch at my own harsh words. Necessary harsh words.
She nodded slowly, as if that explanation settled something for her. Notching her chin up in the air, she slipped her sunglasses back on, scooted the glass of wine back to my side of the table, and rose to her feet.
“Well.” She threw some cash onto the table. Her own cash. “I’ll do my best to make your job easy for you and stay out of your way. Husband.”
That was the second time in twenty-four hours I had to watch her walk away from me.
And this time bothered me a hell of a lot more than the first time.
I might have just married the biggest arsehole on the planet.
Going out and getting pissed—drunk, not angry—later that night might have been a juvenile stunt. But damn, was it effective.
Not that I was pissed. Yet.
All I’d really wanted to do was dance. I needed some way of letting off steam and relieving all this mounting stress. So, after eating dinner—alone—I’d tracked down the only night club within a five-mile radius.
Without leaving Nico his precious little note.
He needn’t be concerned about “reneging” on any deal because I could take care of myself. Not that he would know one way or the other. He’d left for that business dinner hours ago, muttering a few restaurant suggestions on his way out the door. Other than that, we hadn’t spoken since lunch at the wine bar.
And no, I had not tried any of the restaurants he’d recommended.
Again, it was juvenile.
But my stubborn pride was the only weapon I had to wield in this battle. He’d had the upper hand ever since I’d reluctantly agreed to be his wife. And if my father hadn’t specifically asked me to do that for him, then I’d have told Nico not to let the door hit him in the arse on his way out.
My father had never asked me for anything in my life. Not once. Yet he’d given me everything I could have ever wanted—far more than I would have ever dreamed of having.
Refusing him had never been an option.
What was one sacrifice when I owed my very life to the man? To the only family I’d ever known? I would work tirelessly for the rest of my life trying to repay him for all he’d done.
The night club was small but far from empty when I walked in. It looked more like an Italian restaurant than a dingy club, with its ivy-wrapped columns and curved archways that were popular in Rovinj. The bar even looked to be stocked with more wine bottles than liquor. Dimly lit by tasteful sconces on the walls rather than strobes or black lights, it offered an almost romantic atmosphere. Aside from the thumping bass in the DJ booth, of course.
The center of the room was lively with people actually dancing, rather than grinding and gyrating. The bar to my right was lined with more people chatting and waiting for drinks. I found an empty space in the middle and ordered a vodka on the rocks, already feeling some of the anxiety from the last few days melting away.
Eyeing the glass the bartender placed down in front of me, I felt my mouth curve into a frown. The last time I drank vodka was the one Nico poured on the plane.
Damn it all, if he’d ruined vodka for me…
Oh, rubbish.
I lifted it to my mouth and sucked a good bit of it down. I wasn’t about to give that jerk any more power than what he thought he had.
Curiously, though, I hadn’t pegged him as a jerk the first time we met. When I hadn’t yet been aware of my father’s plans for me and Nico. Before my world had gone all topsy-turvy. Back when I thought Nico was just another business associate of Batya’s. Approximately fourteen hours before we’d gotten married…
“This is unacceptable, Mr. Zarsky,” I bit out over the phone in Russian, “I have extended this deadline by three weeks to accommodate your adjusted timeline. These children cannot remain in these overcrowded sleeping conditions for much longer. These renovations must be completed by next week.”
The contractor started tripping over his words, offering his excuses and apologies, blaming the worker’s union for the delays in the renovations I hired him to complete on the Red Gate Orphanage.
Located in a severely neglected and rundown area of Moscow, the building itself needed a lot of maintenance work and updates to the interior. The staff had taken in more children than the building could really hold, hence the new renovations I’d personally raised the money to pay for. While the construction work continued on the new addition, these children were practically sleeping on top of each other. Which, in that part of the city, was just asking for the spread of disease.
I was a patient person. Usually.
But this was the third time Zarsky had pushed his completion date back. I’d waved bye-bye to my patience weeks ago.
“Next week, Mr. Zarsky,” I told him in a stern voice. “If they’re not finished by then, I’ll bring someone in who can actually get the job done.”
I listened to him offer one last assurance before I hung up. He was probably wetting his pants, terrified that I would sick my mobster father on him if he didn’t do what I said. But I would never do that in a million years. I ensured that Batya stayed out of all my business with the orphanage, as well as the work I did with various non-profit organizations around the city.
I walked into Batya’s study where I’d left my laptop, muttering a string of curses in Russian, when a very deep, masculine voice said in English, “I guess it’s true what they say about the Russians having such warm, cheery dispositions.”
Startled, I spun around, my phone slipping through my fingers.
A man I didn’t recognize sat in one of the wingback chairs on the other side of the room, near the large bay windows. Dressed in an impeccable, crisp navy blue suit, he looked the type who dominated whatever room he entered. Or meeting, for that matter, since he was obviously there for business with my father. Though what kind of business was unclear.
Vodka business.
Or mafia business.
This man with the chiseled jawline and longish brown hair pulled back into a low man bun at the nape of his neck could have been involved with either one. Despite the bespoke suit, he looked big and built enough to handle himself in intense situations.
Where the hell is Batya?
“I apologize,” I said, sounding out of breath. Because I was. Most of the oxygen in my lungs fled the second my eyes fell on the gorgeous man. “I didn’t realize anyone was in here. You are meeting with Sergei?”
His eyes gleamed with curiosity as he nodded slowly. “I am. And I’m glad it’s with him and not you.”
“Pardon?”
“I think you had that man in tears by the end of your conversation.”
He’d heard that? Der’mo. Shit.
I’d probably sounded like a ballbuster on a power trip.
I shrugged. “Incompetence requires a firm hand, no? Leniency yields results only up to a certain point.”
His lips parted, as if I’d surprised him.
I began to squirm when he still hadn’t responded after several moments.
Eventually, he agreed. “My thoughts exactly. I need to hire you to come work for me.”
That got a smile out of me. “I might not be available.”
His gaze darkened as it crawled down my body. His eyes narrowed on my T-shirt, one I completely forgot I was wearing. Blasted laundry day. In giant black letters it read, “DO NOT READ THE NEXT SENTENCE.” And in smaller letters beneath that it read, “You little rebel.”
My cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
Here was this GQ model-esque Adonis who was dressed like a million rubles. And here I was, dressed in my off-the-shoulder, ratty laundry day shirt and hair in a topknot.
To my astonishment, he actually chuckled.
When his amber eyes lifted back up to mine, heat blazed in them. “Pity.”
By the next afternoon, I had married that man.
It didn’t make a difference that I had been attracted to Nico in that study. It didn’t matter that I’d felt a spark of something as his gaze had lingered on my chest. That his fingers had tightened on his phone when I’d said I might not have been available. And it definitely didn’t matter that I still wanted to know what he looked like underneath those suits.
None of that had any bearing whatsoever on our current situation.
A situation that I was devoting all my alcohol tolerance toward forgetting for the rest of the night.
A new song thrummed over the speakers, the upbeat melody drawing more patrons onto the dance floor, including me. The bumping bass was catchy and had my hips swaying without thought. Drink in hand, I found a spot somewhere in the middle of all the writhing bodies and paired-off couples.
Throwing my head back and closing my eyes, I lost myself to the electrified atmosphere, to the rhythm driving my feet. I surrendered to the exhilarating sensations that swarmed my veins. Gave myself over to them. To the intoxicating feeling that I didn’t have a single care in this world. That nothing else existed outside of that song, that club, and that drink.
Then my spine tingled with a differ
ent sensation.
I was being watched.
Not just by the single men around me. It was someone specific, watching from a distance. Stalking from the shadows. Hunting like a predator.
Old fears crept in as gooseflesh raised over my skin. The knowledge that someone had me in his sights had my heart pounding in my ears, overpowering the bass of the music.
Then I spotted him.
The shadowy figure hovering on the edge of the dance floor, partially shrouded in darkness, was most definitely watching me.
But he wasn’t a stranger. Not entirely anyway.
He was my husband.
And he looked equal parts furious and…hungry.
Wait, hungry? That couldn’t be right. We despised each other. After that crack about flashing my cleavage at the cameras, I’d briefly contemplated taking out a hit on him.
Yet, there it was, written all over Nico’s face. In his wild eyes, his flaring nostrils, his tightening jaw. His tie was loosened and askew. His hair was disheveled, as if he’d been taking it in and out of his man bun over and over.
He followed me again?
Why? Just to make sure I didn’t get murdered and screw up his deal with my father? Most of the time, he acted like I could go jump off a fifty-story building for all he cared. Again, as long as I didn’t die and interfere with his business.
Then there were these moments.
When he looked at me like he might actually give a shit. He’d wanted me to leave him a note when I was going somewhere alone. Had suggested worthwhile restaurants to eat at. Had left cash for me in his absence. Had seemed wholly upset when I’d told him about my scrape with crazed obsession years ago in a hotel room.
Who was the real Nico?
With our gazes entwined across the dance floor, he slowly raised his hand and crooked his finger at me.
Oh, no, no, no, malysh. Baby boy.
This girl would not be beckoned.
When I kept my feet planted right where they were, Nico smirked at my insolence and slid his hands inside his pockets.
He remained right where he was, eyes on me.
I remained right where I was, eyes on him.
And in the middle of a thriving club of undulating bodies, the two of us did our own dance.
Booze and Bullets (Brooklyn Brothers #3) Page 7