Carrick had one good guess who that was.
Validating the theory further, Danica’s reaction to the two men approaching her was visceral. She jumped back from the tall cocktail table and accidentally slammed into a woman behind her. Thankfully no glasses were smashed, but Danica quickly searched around, finding his eyes to plead for help.
“Keep it cool, Dani,” he muttered, though she definitely couldn’t hear him over the noise of the crowd. “Let’s not blow it before the wedding even starts.”
Clearly realizing that he wasn’t coming to her side, she shot him a look of death and sank back beneath the intensity of Petrov and the young man. Carrick stood back, watching the scene unfold and gaining valuable intelligence while keeping his eye on her. After years of reconnaissance and black ops, he knew how to remain unseen if he wanted to. He stood back in the shadows, calm and collected. Proving he’d gone rogue wouldn’t help Danica—not one bit. That wasn’t the right card to play…just yet. This was his chance to simply observe.
Their conversation didn’t take long, but Carrick learned some interesting things through their body language. Petrov was cold, dismissive and pushy. He sneered at Danica, uninterested in hearing anything from her, which seemed only to drive her further into silence and servitude. The blond, cunning man was handsy with her, even as she was clearly trying to shrink away. The guy acted as if he owned her, like she was a toy for him to play with, as though he was entitled to her body. It took everything in Carrick’s power not to jump in, but he knew he had to stay back and see what Danica would do.
He was quickly learning that she wasn’t willing to do much.
Watching her cower was the most heartbreaking thing of all. She looked like prey desperate to run, desperate to be free. She didn’t deserve that. No one did.
It was a bad scene—and Carrick found himself feeling pretty rough by the end of it. Whatever he had in mind for the interaction did not come to fruition. She didn’t stand up. She didn’t exhibit power. She looked like she was under a spell.
Even when Andriy—the man Dani had told him was Petrov’s choice for her—leaned in, grabbing her waist and bringing her in to kiss her on the cheek, her body remained stiff yet compliant. She didn’t even refuse—and watching him hold her was enough to set Carrick off. As the guy slowly released her from his grasp, he scanned up and down her body—checking her out so obviously that the jealous, protective, possessive side of Carrick roared inside him.
Maybe Danica hadn’t really ignored his advice. Maybe she didn’t really have it in her. One thing was clear. She’d proved that she wasn’t ready to fight Petrov…or Andriy.
That changes everything.
Finally, Tweedledee and Tweedledum took off, heading toward the chairs for the ceremony. Danica gripped the edge of the cocktail table, clearly struggling just to breathe. Carrick moved back in. After seeing the pupils of Danica’s eyes dilated and her mouth parched, he grasped a glass of whatever off the tray that was floating by. As he held it up to her lips, she took a sip, clearly shaken. Then, she slowly took the glass from his hand, her fingers just grazing his for an instant.
Danica snapped out of it, slammed the glass down and pushed back from the table—pushing back from him. Her eyes narrowed on Carrick, and he saw something stewing within her.
“Why did you stay at the bar?” she vented, fast and furious, her eyes welling. “You said you would face them with me, and you left me alone.”
He cocked his head back, unable to conceal his own discontent. “Why did you let him touch you?”
Her mouth parted, obviously grasping for words as she searched his face. But then she clamped it shut and turned her face away from him. He could feel her agony.
“Look… You need to listen to me,” he started, ready to reiterate the plan. “You have to set the marker down that you are not his. It’s just that easy.”
“It’s not that easy!” She inched back. “You don’t understand.”
But Carrick immediately shot back, “Don’t go anywhere I can’t see you.”
“Stop.” Her body stiffened and she turned on her stilettos.
He reached out but didn’t catch her in time. She marched away from where he stood toward the chairs lined up on the grass. As he watched her leave, he only had two thoughts—never before has it been so fucking hard to protect someone, and damn, that fucking ass.
If she would only just listen.
Hot on her heels, Carrick followed in her wake, not wanting Tweedledum to corner her alone. Plus, Carrick wanted to get a good seat with a view of these goddamn rich people shenanigans. The wedding was cracking up to be ridiculously lavish. Right behind Danica, following her glide forward, he found a solid two seats on the edge of the far-right side. He reached up to tug her back, touching her smooth golden shoulder, uttering quietly that they should sit.
Her reaction was unexpected.
She elbowed backward, stabbing him in the gut. And he wasn’t even flexing.
“Fuck,” he ground out, a little winded.
Along with some granny beside him, Danica whipped around and narrowed her eyes violently at him, sending him that same look of death. As he mouthed a bullshit apology to the granny, Danica pushed forward as if she didn’t care, like she didn’t even know him.
He did not appreciate that, not at all.
However angry he had been before, now he was really pissed.
After slamming down beside her on a pristinely covered white chair in a row of dozens of seats, he observed as the hundreds of wedding guests found their spots. A hush fell over the crowd as gentle wedding music began with elegant harps and violins. The salty ocean breeze and relaxing nature sounds permeated through the air, hitting him in the bones—in the wrong fucking way. Just beside him, someone was releasing doves into the air to the tune of the harp. Sure, it was all pretty fucking beautiful and shit.
He was going to puke.
He crossed his arms tightly, wishing he’d taken Delta’s advice and brought a gun.
Beside him, Danica also crossed her arms and sank back into her chair. He could tell she was upset. And really, he didn’t blame her much. Her people were clearly assholes, and they were up to something—something Carrick really didn’t like.
Things weren’t going well.
He looked over the crowd, trying to get eyes on Petrov and his sidekick. But his view got stalled out by the bridesmaids starting to waltz down the aisle to some typical wedding tune. Little girls were throwing pink flowers and petals into the air, whacking guests in the face. Some dude caught one in the eye and started sneezing uncontrollably.
As Carrick exhaled in pure irritation, he remembered every reason why he hated weddings. The arch alone brought back vicious memories. Lauren wanted an arch like that, he thought, observing the decorative flowered piece at the altar. He’d always been against such a fussy wedding, and they’d had many arguments over it.
It was all so fucking stupid.
Lauren had never understood how he viewed it.
A wicked feeling flashed up his esophagus, and he found himself coughing into his fist, trying to keep it super quiet—but Danica noticed. Her wild gaze flashed to him, probably trying to figure out what was going on. And that was something she would never know. Thankfully, the urge to cough went away, and Carrick was able to catch his breath.
He carefully closed the steel trap in his chest and shut out the truth. When Lauren had died, so had his heart. That part of him was gone forever.
And it’s never coming back.
Chapter Eleven
Danica
As the ceremony ended, Danica stood then turned to look around at the crowd. She was feeling even more nervous. Carrick’s presence wasn’t as comforting as it had been before.
From her vantage point, she could see white-uniformed employees starting to usher guests to the bars on the patio, just outside the clubhouse. Cocktail hour was just starting. It was going to be the worst part.
“We done?�
� Carrick grunted down onto her.
She turned to him, looking up into his cold face. As she assessed, she felt a chill running up her arms—but didn’t know if it was the evening ocean wind or his dead gaze.
He was so damn emotionless.
Just heartless.
Straightening her back, she replied curtly, “I imagine we are expected for dinner.”
“I don’t give a f—”
But Danica spun away from him before he could finish. As she marched, her stomach dropped, turning violently as she started putting one foot in front of the other. Carrick had been her only chance. And now, what was he? She felt so alone. She’d known it was a terrible idea to come to this wedding. What had she expected would happen?
She was never going to be able to stand up to Petrov. Never.
She shouldn’t have let Carrick convince her otherwise.
Her shoulders slumping, she saw her cousin Varya, the bride, getting ready for photos in the green grass against the ocean backdrop. At the very least, she had to congratulate her. And seeming to have a sixth sense, her cousin looked up in the distance, seeing Danica and waving effusively. Varya’s eyes flickered up to the reception hall, pointing and smiling. Danica smiled back, a bit forced. It was going to be a big dinner, a big party.
And that was everything she didn’t want.
As her cousin became distracted again with the photographer and her now-husband, Danica took in a deep breath and turned to the reception hall. She was expected to be there. There was no turning back now.
The distance between Danica and Carrick stretched as she moved through the crowd. All she could hear was Russian being spoken, and her abilities in that language were rusty, to say the least. It only intensified her isolation. Briefly looking backward, she realized that Carrick was quietly watching her, allowing a greater expanse to develop between them than ever before. The elastic band between them was ready to snap.
She exhaled sharply, knowing it had never been real.
As Danica found her way into the reception hall, she took in the hundred or so white round wedding dinner tables but found it nearly impossible to get a good look at the crowd to see who was there. The centerpieces were tall, flush with vibrant florals and greens. And that wasn’t even getting at the other glittery décor. The entire wedding was a giant glitter bomb.
As she leaned in to read the table map, she realized that the fonts were too small, and she reached for her clutch to get her glasses. A man in a suit who looked like he worked there turned to her and asked what her name was.
“Danica Petrova,” she responded, squinting back at the table map.
“Ah, Miss Petrova. You’ll be at table six.” The man nodded, as if immediately recognizing her name, and motioned to the far side of the room by the windows. “Please, may I escort you?”
“No,” Danica shook her head quickly, stepping away. She didn’t want the princess entrance.
Discreetly finding her way around the outside of the hall, attempting to locate table six and trying not to draw attention to herself, a young man around her age, with mousy hair and a very-LA cream-colored suit, stepped in front of her and she nearly slammed into him.
“Izvini,” the young man apologized in Russian as he turned around and looked her up and down. “Ty zdes’ s nevestoy?”
“Bride’s side,” Danica replied slowly in English. She fidgeted with her clutch.
She was close—so close.
“Alexei.” The young man shot out his hand, changing to English.
Danica took it reluctantly, shaking it as she offered a polite smile back. “Dani.”
He licked his bottom lip as he grinned. “Want to get a drink? You look thirsty.” His accent was thick, almost as thick as his charm.
And before she could say anything, he was flagging down a waiter for two glasses of crisp white wine. The waiter handed both over as Alexei slipped him a large tip, slick and impressive. He clinked Danica’s glass and leaned in to ask her more about herself, laying on the charisma. Her reluctance to answer only seemed to make him all-the-more interested in cracking her.
She was in the lion’s den—and anyone could be an agent of Petrov’s organization, checking on her, testing her. She had to get out and get far away as soon as possible—and as quickly as doing so wouldn’t cause more problems.
As Alexei talked about his life in Santa Monica, Danica realized the reception hall had filled up and guests were starting to find their seats. Then she realized Carrick was standing with his back against the far wall. She didn’t notice him at first, because the man was incredible at fitting in when he wanted to be unseen. But when she did catch his tall, dark, muscular form, she noticed he was looking at her with that same frown on his face—quiet and unimpressed.
One of the ushers approached her, speaking in heavily accented English, “Miss Petrova, can I help you find your seat?”
Alexei’s face dropped, and he immediately stepped backward from her. A look of terror flashed across his face. The usher gave him a sharp scowl. It was immediately clear that the young man had had no idea as to the territory he had been stepping into.
And Danica was someone’s territory.
Danica quickly shook her head, taking the opportunity to remove herself from Alexei and the usher. With her empty wine glass, she found herself before Carrick’s intense gaze as he leaned against the wall in between the large windows overlooking the ocean.
“I didn’t see you there,” she whispered.
The cold chill from him had gone into overdrive—and she shivered just being beside him. Things had clearly grown very uncomfortable.
“Need help?” Carrick asked, watching her try to read the table numbers across the hall.
“No, thanks,” she replied quietly, bending to get something out of her clutch.
She pulled out her dark-rimmed glasses and slipped them up her nose. Finally, she saw table six in the middle of the room. She slipped the glasses off, but as she did, Carrick grabbed her hand, stilling her movements as they locked eyes.
“You wear glasses?”
“Looks like it, doesn’t it?” She raised her eyebrow at him.
His eyes narrowed on her. “Don’t put them away.”
“Why?” She leaned back.
“Now is the time to be able to see properly,” Carrick warned. “They are up to something.”
Relenting, she slipped her glasses back up her nose and found everything was much easier to see. Carrick nodded subtly in the direction of Andriy, who wasn’t even halfway across the room, hovering over table six. Her lips parted as she looked back to Carrick.
But he’d already looked away.
A waiter walked by, handing her a fresh wine glass, and she took it gladly, needing way more wine than what she’d had. She gulped the chilled substance, feeling it go straight to her bones. Guests slowly found their way into the hall, milling around to chatter and drink, smelling the arrival of hot appetizers. That meant that the formal dinner wouldn’t be far off.
As she stirred uncomfortably, Carrick leaned in farther, as if to whisper something into her ear. Her whole body stirred as he got closer. But then he stopped and leaned back in against the wall—not saying anything.
“What?” Danica pressed.
Carrick just shook his head. He averted his gaze and stopped talking to her altogether. A distance grew between them once again. Danica hated how onlookers wouldn’t even know they had arrived together. Validating that thought, a beautiful mid-forties woman with long blonde hair found her way next to Carrick and immediately started chatting, asking Carrick about himself, which led Danica to overhear and learn more about the man in that short moment than she had in all the time she’d been with him.
“Yeah, I grew up in Long Beach, just up the bluffs,” Carrick answered the woman politely. “Nice place. You?”
Excited and effusive, the woman kept chatting about So-Cal families and surfing. Carrick got into the conversation with her on surfing, seeming t
o be more and more interested in talking to her. As the woman laughed, it was clear that she was flirting with him. But Danica couldn’t really hear everything that they were talking about.
And Carrick wasn’t inviting her to join.
Danica wished she could switch spots with the woman and be having that laughing, flirting, fun conversation with him. And it hurt even more that he seemed to have forgotten about the reason why he was there.
So she quietly stood back, hurting, seething—and drinking wine that went down like water, and she realized that Alexei had been right. She was thirsty. Unfortunately, the more wine she drank, the more alone she felt and the more distant she was from Carrick. That feeling only got worse as cocktail hour continued. Considering that the man was more or less beside her, she didn’t even know him. It seemed like she wasn’t even there with him.
Which, in truth, she wasn’t.
Finally, as guests were called to sit and the beautiful woman beside Carrick started proclaiming her need to dance later on, Danica couldn’t take it anymore—so she pushed back from the wall, ready to bolt. She didn’t look at Carrick, didn’t say a word.
But she didn’t get far.
Andriy swooped in out of nowhere and took her elbow. Looking down on her, he shot a wide, self-satisfied smile.
“Shall we?” he asked, putting his hand on her lower back.
Danica’s skin crawled as she realized what he meant. He was ushering them toward table six. They were to be seated together.
But what about Carrick?
Turning her head over her shoulder, she realized what was happening but had no idea where Carrick was moving to. The same usher in a dark suit who had helped her had found his way over to Carrick, and as they both walked away, it was clear that they were having a tense exchange—even more tense than her interaction with Alexei. That was the last time she saw Carrick, as Andriy turned her attention back to the table and the dinner that was being served.
Under Control Page 8
