Page 13 of Disguised as Love

But then, I saw the look Raisa gave Ilia, and it sent that feeling sailing away. She trusted him completely. I wouldn’t. I couldn’t have trusted him even if I had his file sitting before me. As it was, I didn’t know what branch of the mafiya he’d grown up in. I didn’t know diddly-squat. What I did know was that if someone paid him enough, he’d likely flip on us, loyal dog or not. Everyone in the Russian mob had a price.

Silence settled down between us, and then Ilia pulled himself out of the chair. “I get food.”

He walked toward the door to the galley, and I watched him leave. The dragon tattoo that rose up out of his collar to trail around his head and face would make it easy for Nolan to trace him. I’d know more about him before the end of the day.

I turned back to find Raisa’s eyes on me. I rose, picked up her feet, and sat, putting them in my lap. She stiffened again. The heat and lick of lightning I’d felt every time we touched coursed through me once more. I had to learn to fight through it. I had to find my way to the other side of the storm. To where the lightning faded from the sky, leaving only the cool rain and muddy puddles that lacked the fission the air had been filled with.

Raisa had abandoned the stilettoes she’d been wearing next to the couch as soon as we’d taken off, and I rubbed my thumb into the arch of her foot.

“What are you doing?” she hissed.

“Getting you used to my touch,” I said, keeping my voice low.

She tried to pull away, but I grabbed her ankle with my other hand, holding her foot hostage and trying not to dwell too long on how soft her skin felt under my fingers. To not think about how easy it would be to slide my hand up her leg, over the soft curve of her thigh, and under her tight skirt.

I leaned toward her a little and spoke as quietly as I could. “You can’t trust him.”

She scoffed. “You’re the one I can’t trust.”

Maybe she was right. Maybe she couldn’t trust any of us. I had one job to do: bring everything tumbling down. I’d promised I’d see her safely back to the States, but I’d never said I wouldn’t burn her life down around her in the process.

Instead of pushing the topic, I changed directions while I continued to work my fingers into her soles. “How close are your photovoltaic nano cells to being a reality?”

She looked surprised that I knew what she was working on.

She inhaled, a soft look taking over her face, pride and excitement she couldn’t hide. “Close…really close. The honeycomb structure we’re using with the perovskite…”

She trailed off.

“Why did you stop?”

“I’m thinking about how to simplify it.”

“I was a chemistry major. You don’t need to dumb it down for me.”

Her eyes flickered shut and back open as I pushed harder on the ball of her foot.

When she didn’t respond, I kept going, “Let me guess. You thought I was some football jock who needed the glory of a gun to keep up the thrill I’d gotten from being the center of attention in high school.” I got it a lot. My size alone made people think I’d been some sports guru in school.

“No. I don’t judge people like that. I let them tell me their story.” I scoffed at her words, but she ignored me, continuing, “But most people’s eyes glaze over when they hear microcells, encapsulated hexagon-shaped scaffold, microns, and biopolymers. I wasn’t dumbing it down as much as trying to be brief.”

I put her foot down and grabbed the other one while she watched. I repeated the massage, trying to ignore every vein screaming at me to continue molding my fingers into her skin until it turned soft and wet at my touch.

“You don’t believe me?” she asked. I shrugged, pretending a carelessness I was far from feeling. “I don’t judge because I am judged. I am Russian, so my family members must be gun traffickers.”

“Your family members are gun traffickers,” I taunted, even though every word she spoke was slamming away at my own experiences. At a lifetime of opinions sent my way because of the color of my skin, my size, my suit, my badge, and my gun.

“That isn’t the point,” she huffed. “People don’t know that. They just assume it. Just like I must be part of a sex ring, drug ring, phishing scheme, or a fake news outlet. I am none of those things. I’m simply a scientist looking for a cure to our world’s energy crisis.”

“By wearing Gucci?” I tried a tease again, but it went all kinds of haywire. She jerked her feet away, threw the blanket aside, and stood above me with her hands on her hips.

“I’m blonde, so I must be dumb. I like stylish clothes, so I must be superficial. It’s all the same, isn’t it?” she continued her little tirade.

I let my arms drape along the back of the couch in feigned nonchalance so I wouldn’t be tempted to grab her by the waist and haul her between my legs.

“I’m sorry. I was trying to lighten the mood,” I said.

“How can you? Your role is the same, is it not? Don’t people assume you are the token Black person in the group? As if somehow you didn’t earn your spot just as much as the person next to you? As if you only got it because of the color of your skin?”

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