“There is no need for disguise,” he says, interrupting me. “You will not be leaving hotel.”
But I’m already enthusiastic about the thought of a disguise. “I would need a black turtleneck and leather pants. And a haircut! Maybe I will shave my head.”
“No head shave. I like your hair.” And he reaches out and tugs one lock between his fingers, rubbing it.
I can’t feel anything—it’s just hair—but I’m disconcerted and pleased. I like direct compliments. So often, people try to hide what they mean and I miss their meaning. He likes my hair. “What if I just dye it instead?”
“Dye is acceptable,” he says thoughtfully, still rubbing my hair. “What color do you wish?”
“My favorite color is green.”
“The idea is to be inconspicuous.”
Oh. I think for a moment longer. I’m a natural blonde but I have dark brows, so I won’t look too odd with darker hair. “Brown? Naturally brown hair accounts for sixty percent of North American hair colors.”
He rubs my hair for a moment longer. “Da. Brown. For now.”
“And the disguise clothing? Do you need my clothing sizes? I’m a 38-inch bust, 24-inch waist, 36-inch hips. My inseam is 28 inches and I wear a size 8 shoe.”
Vasily says nothing, simply regards me and continues to rub my hair between his fingers.
I wonder if I’ve missed a subtle cue somehow. I can never tell what emotional people are thinking, and I begin to get nervous. “You know I am autistic, correct?”
He shrugs, as if this means nothing to him.
I try to parse that reaction. Normally people recoil, or get a sympathetic look on their faces as if I’ve suddenly declared myself brainless. But a shrug? A so what? I . . . well, I don’t recall ever getting that reaction before. He’s still touching my hair, though. “Because I am autistic, I will miss subtle clues. You will need to explain things directly to me.”
Again, he shrugs.
Flustered, I return to reciting my measurements. “If you need my bra size, I’m a 38C. I’m told that’s not an average size, but you should be able to find it in most stores. Medium panty, but it depends on the brand. I’ve never had my neck measured but I don’t think it’s necessary. If you have a measuring tape here, we can correct that, though.”
“It is not necessary.”
“All right.” I give one last look at my script. There’s nothing else for me to do at the moment. I feel awkward, but I don’t want to look at Vasily. If he’s giving me cues of what he is expecting of me, I’m missing them. “What do we do now?”
He looks at his watch. “It is late.”
“Late” is a cue I know. That’s indirect wording for bedtime. I have a routine before I go to bed. I always shower and wash my hair to get the day’s grime off of my skin, because I can’t sleep if there’s a chance that there are germs on me. I also insist on having the blankets and sheets changed every day. It’s a quirk my family has always accommodated, and Hudson’s people did, as well. I will have to tell this man that I have additional demands. Not as the Emperor, but as Naomi. Naomi is far more delicate than the Emperor.
“Then I should shower,” I tell Vasily. “I need shampoo, conditioner, a new bar of soap, and new towels. And flip-flops because there are bound to be germs in the tub.”
“I am sure that if the room does not have what we need, it can be acquired.” His voice is smooth and easy, and I imagine it as a softly rippling wave of sound. Comforting. Lovely with its bass tones. I like this man’s voice. I steal a glance up at him.
“Have you ever been kissed, Naomi?” he asks me, startling me.
“I have, but I didn’t like it.”
“No? Why is that?”
“Germs,” I tell him. “Mouths are dirty things. The average mouth has several hundred kinds of bacteria in it at all times. I don’t like the thought of mixing bacteria with someone else’s.”
“But if their mouth were clean? Teeth brushed? Mouth freshened with mouthwash?”
I . . . I don’t know. I’ve never thought about this. I’m startled into silence.
He’s still standing over my shoulder, rubbing my lock of hair slowly. He hasn’t moved. I think of him watching my breasts earlier, and his words about stroking his cock between my breasts. I think of the euphoric almost-anxiety-but-not I felt when he looked at me. It’s not something I feel often and it’s hard to put my finger on. I lick my lips, thinking of my shower. And I wonder what it will feel like if Vasily watches me while I bathe.
I enjoy touching myself and getting clean. I love a scalding-hot shower. And a new, subversive hypothesis forms in my mind. Query: if Vasily gazing at my clothed breasts makes me feel breathless, will him gazing at my naked breasts induce a different physical reaction?
Scientific theory always provides an interesting path to take, and I’m intrigued by where this could lead. I look up at Vasily again. When his gaze meets mine, I break contact and let my eyes focus elsewhere. “I need to shower. Do you want to watch?”
CHAPTER FIVE
VASILY
My hand drops from her hair and I turn her down. “Not tonight, Naomi. I think, perhaps, you should sleep now.”
“So you don’t want to see me naked?” Frown marks crease her forehead. Her fake confusion generates a wild urge inside me to soothe her, to draw her down next to me on the sofa and rub away the furrows in her brow. The feelings and sensations she is eliciting are startling and unfamiliar.
Impatient with her and myself, I speak to her more harshly than intended. “Nyet. Thank you for the invitation but I must decline.”
I can see the words tumble inside her head as she debates how to respond, which only irritates me more. I do not need a conniving female on my hands thinking to seduce me. No matter that the thought crossed my mind earlier. My response to her was real and genuine. I am disturbed that she responds with calculation only.
For hours, Naomi had forgotten everything outside of the keys of her laptop and the scrolling screen of black with green text. She tapped away at her screen and muttered how it was too small. When I suggested something larger, she ignored me. I brought her a sandwich but she pushed it away, muttering something about the red looking like blood. She would not eat it. Aleksei and I discuss that perhaps she is a vegetarian and Aleksei goes to speak to the chef. A cheese and avocado sandwich is returned. She eats the avocado and bread but nothing else.
I make note of everything.
Her actions toward me are now calculated. The tug on her shirt to reveal her breasts, the placement of her mouth over the glass where mine touched—all of it seems to be a ploy to garner a reaction. The shower invitation is yet another part of a game she is playing.
But I am still tempted.
“You are—what would you say? Trying too hard,” I respond. Even to my ears, I sound petulant and accusatory. A child, not a man. Rising from the sofa, I try for a more modulated tone. “I think we are both too tired for bedroom antics tonight, Naomi.” With that, I turn and walk toward the third bedroom. The diplomatic suite had been mine, but Naomi seems to prefer it and the view. Why not simply accede to her requests in this matter?
“It’s the bathroom.” Her statement stops me short.
“It is what?”
“I’m not asking you to watch me in the bedroom. That’s a different room. I invited you to watch me shower. There’s water. A toilet. Also nice-smelling things. Steam. It’s a different environment. Environments can result in differing outcomes. I’m not interested in the bedroom currently but I may be later. What is it about the bedroom you prefer? You mentioned the bedroom earlier. Is that more conducive to watching things?”
Her words have caught me off guard and worse, I begin to imagine things such as Naomi’s ample breasts being caressed by her own hands as she massages oils and lotions and soaps into her skin. It takes little effort to visualize the water streaming over her curves, dripping downward to cling to the blond curls between her legs.
I’m halfway across the room before I realize that she’s caught me again. Naomi is clever, and not just with computers. I have forgotten myself. “You have a silver tongue. I will remember that.” With a click of my heels and a formal bow, I bid her good night.
I am not prepared for the Emperor to be a female. The fake passports and identities I’ve brought are all for men. In my room, I take them out and rifle through the identities. The shortest one is a male, five-eight, and that is still taller than Naomi, so disguising her as a male would not work.
This is not a problem I cannot overcome. Rio is a tourist city. There are people—and thus passports—available everywhere.
I place a pair of thin rubber gloves in my pocket and a knife in my boot.
“Where are you going?” Aleksei asks me as I enter the foyer.
I respond coldly, for it is unusual that he is watching me so carefully. “Out.”
He knows better than to ask for an explanation but the look in his eyes raises the hair on my neck. It is intense and calculating. I would deal with him now, but I need someone to watch Naomi while I am gone.
“I’ll be back shortly,” I tell him, part in warning.
He nods in reply.
The hotel we are in is too luxurious for the tour buses, my current target. I walk down the beach and then around to the front of each resort, looking for a bus returning to the airport. At the third hotel, I find the perfect mark. The tour guide is busy corralling guests inside. There is a passenger with a dog who is yapping loudly. The bus driver is leaning against the front, sharing a smoke with a hotel valet.
And one of the passengers is approximately Naomi’s height. Conveniently, her purse is left abandoned on top of her suitcase as she chases down a small child. I hunch over, lowering my head, and no one notices as I begin rolling the cases toward the open luggage compartment at the bottom of the bus. Or if they notice, they think I am nothing more than part of the tour package.
When I get to the mother’s suitcase, I simply walk off and climb into a waiting cab. Inside the purse I find a passport for an American woman, Karen Brown. Like her name, she has dark brown hair and is the same height as Naomi. It is perfect.
The clothes inside the suitcase will work as well. Satisfied, I give the driver the address of the hotel.
When I return to the hotel, I immediately have the new luggage and passport sent to the jet that is on standby. Upstairs in the suite, Naomi is in virtually the same position she was when I left. Aleksei is in his room, pacing. I retreat to the bedroom and once there, I find myself full of restless energy.
I cannot hear Naomi or the click for the soundproofing is too good in the suite. It is why we chose this particular hotel and set of rooms. Only one way to enter, and no one can hear our activities. Yet now I wish for thinner walls and less space. I wonder if her skin is still wet from the shower. I wonder if, when she cleaned between her legs, she lingered, imagining my touch there.
My body grows tight and ready. I tell myself it is adrenaline from the theft earlier, but I can only lie so many times to myself. Quickly I throw on running shoes and shorts.
“What is the matter with you?” Aleksei asks, joining me in the exercise room, where I have sought my physical release.
“I am hiding,” I admit. Sweat drips down my forehead. Without interrupting my long strides on the treadmill, I swipe the liquid away with the bottom of my shirt before it can sting my eyes.
“From the girl?” He smirks.
She is no mere girl. She is a temptress with her luscious breasts and curvy form. I, who am never tempted by women or men for that matter, cannot stop thinking of her. An hour of exercise and I’m still feeling an ache in my balls—from the girl.
“She is dangerous,” I tell him. “Stay away from her.” I do not want Aleksei snared in her web. He is not as strong willed as I. With a mere crook of her finger, she would have him on his knees, begging to be her slave. I do not warn him away because I want her for myself, I warn him for his own safety.
“She is a small thing,” he scoffs. “Her skill is with technological things. I can disarm her blindfolded and on my knees.”
“Let us not underestimate her,” I say. “Remember that Sergei was brought down by a girl.”
Aleksei sobers immediately. What Aleksei does not know is that Sergei was tied to a chair when he was shot. He believes that former Bratva member Nikolai Andrushko helped to exact revenge for the killing of his mentor, the killing of my mentor, Alexsandr Krinkov. And that Nikolai is now dead by my hand. Only Nikolai’s death is just another part of my deceit, for he is alive, living in North America under an assumed identity with his love.
Aleksei considers my words of caution and then asks, “What will you do if she cannot find the Madonna?”
“She will.”
“But if she does not?” he presses.
Aleksei was once a friend, perhaps my only friend. We have seen a lot together and I wish I could trust him, confide in him, but his loyalties are torn. We all do what we must to survive. I do not hold any of his actions against him, but I will show no weakness and no doubt.
“Then we return and in time, the members of the Bratva will come to appreciate the life of ease that the new direction of our business interests have brought.”
“Complacency is dangerous.”
“For them, Aleksei. We will be ever watchful.” I strike the stop button on the treadmill forcefully. “Get some sleep. I will observe our quarry for the first watch.”
Aleksei nods and like the good soldier he is, hurries off to rest so that he can spell me in eight hours.
Over by the vodka, I arrange the napkins and straws before moving to the bathroom.
I take a quick, cold shower. I do not shut my eyes but rather turn my face into the stinging spray of freezing water. Each time my lids drift closed, I think of Naomi in her own shower, under the water, touching herself and how, if I had more self-control, I could have watched her. But I feared at that moment that she would eat me, the Volk. Turning away, I sought control in my solitude.
She is dangerous, I told Aleksei, but it is really I who needs the warning. I find her too intriguing, and therefore she is a danger to me and my mission. Because I am not solely focused on the painting or even my sister, Katya. Instead, I find myself wondering how many colors of wheat and gold there are in her hair. I wonder what pure waters have emptied themselves into her eyes to make them so blue.
My hands ache to cup her breasts and my mouth . . . fuck, my mouth is watering at the idea of sucking her tit into it and working the tip until it’s hard and erect.
The fine wool of my trousers is too tight and my cockhead is chafing against my underwear. I have never responded to a woman like this. I did not lie when I told Naomi I did not want to be touched. Ordinarily I am repulsed by human affection, but I find myself turning to her again and again in my thoughts where we are doing things, rubbing against each other, kissing each other, fucking each other.
I scrub a hand down my face and try to will away those thoughts but they are there, lurking behind my other worries and goals.
Outside in the living area, I find there is no one. The lights are low but her computer is humming. On the screen, I see line after line of meaningless letters and numbers jumbled together. Un peu, I answered when she asked if I spoke French. I speak many languages, but computer code is not one of them. I should learn. This gap in my knowledge endangers me.
Pulling out my phone, I order two books, one on basic computer language and one on The Art of Exploitation. Many good reviews. On the sofa, I settled down to read about buffer overflows and the areas of weakness in software programming.
“What are you doing?” I hear hours later.
“Reading,” I respond without looking up. I fear my response to her. Already I can feel my heart rate accelerating from just the sound of her voice. This reaction I have to her is strange, terrifying and yet . . . enticing.
She is like the sirens of old w
hose voices were so beautiful, sailors followed them on the ocean only to die of heartbreak and longing. I wonder if the songs followed them into the dark, deep waters and if they did, whether the sailors celebrated their watery deaths. A part of me wishes to rise up and walk to Naomi, take her by the hand into the bathroom or the bedroom, and find out what it is like to be touched by her. If her voice quickens me, rouses my base instinct, what would it be like to have my hands on her warm flesh or her quick, clever fingers tripping over my body?
It is those questions, those wants, that keep me pinned to the sofa, my eyes on the words explaining things like heap, stacks, packets.
“Programming is a language just like any other, yes?” I say instead.
“Yes. That’s exactly right. Are you reading a book on software programming?” The sofa cushion beside me dips as she settles her weight next to mine. I resist the urge to slide my arm around the back of the sofa and turn my body toward hers.
“The Art of Exploitation,” I answer.
“Why did you pick that book?”
“Should I have chosen another?”
I feel her shrug. “It’s outdated and rudimentary but I can see how it would be useful as a beginner’s tool. Why did you pick it? You haven’t answered that.”
“It seemed like it was the right one.”
“There’s no art to hacking. Art implies that there is an emotional return from coding. There is not. Computer programming is simply the application of a series of prompts and commands.”
Her statement belies her tone, but as I examine her face, she shows only earnestness. This topic of rational arguments designed to produce a specific result interests her like none other. Does she not realize that she has a sensory response to her work? She derives satisfaction and, yes, even pleasure. It is written on every feature of her face, evident in the glow in her eyes, the light smile around her lips and the ease in her shoulders.
Last Kiss Page 5
