Page 17 of Lethal Torture
The truth is, though my initial invitations to the two women were nothing more than a courtesy to Roman and Dimitry, I’ve wound up quite enjoying their company when they come to visit. I’m definitely not one for girly lunches and gossip, but more than once I’ve found myself wishing that Darya and Abby lived closer.
Still pointedly ignoring the man on the opposite side of the booth, I turn to Mak, who’s been watching this exchange with the faint smile of a man who finds all of humanity infinitely amusing. Most of the time it’s a trait I rather enjoy.
Tonight, however, given the fact that his guest is still watching me with a silence so loud it almost echoes, Mak’s amusement grates a little.
“I take it you’ve brought my new hire,” I say, still pointedly ignoring Luke’s eyes and talking about him as if he doesn’t exist. “You really should have checked him in at the door. He’s lucky my people didn’t put a bullet through him the moment he breached security.”
Mak grins like a Cheshire cat. “That’s because he didn’t breach your security,” he points out. “Or at least, not that you managed to detect. Which is one of the reasons he’s the best man for the job.”
“Given that I still haven’t fully briefed you on the job, that’s a bold claim.” I settle back in my chair and pour a glass of Disaronno Reserva, still pointedly ignoring the man opposite.
Mak shrugs. “It’s no secret that someone has been taking potshots at you, Zin.” He slides a tablet across the table and taps a file. “This is a more comprehensive breakdown of Captain Macarthur’s mission experience.”
Captain Macarthur.
Oh, fuck.
Like it doesn’t turn you on just to say it, Zinaida.
I look at him directly for the first time since I sat down, then immediately wish I hadn’t.
Looking directly at him is a mistake.
Not because he’s blindingly handsome, because he isn’t.
Or rather, he isn’t handsome in a GQ cover story kind of way. He doesn’t have Roman Borovsky’s hawk-eyed, billionaire polish or Mak’s louche, aristocratic elegance. Up close, his height and bulk are almost intimidating. Some of his scars are visible above the tux, and I’d be willing to bet there are plenty more below it. His last haircut was clearly a few months ago, thechestnut curls as windblown as if he’s just stepped off a boat, and his three-day growth looks like it’s a permanent fixture.
No. I was right the first time I saw his photo.
He’s a fucking savage.
But I was right about what lies behind the hard wall of muscle and lethal credentials, too.
His enormous hands, broad as dinner plates and scarred as an old boxer’s, are reassuring in the way a carpenter’s might be, worn and somehow comforting.
Reassuring. Comforting.
Hardly the ruthless killer I require.
Luke might be able to run military missions behind enemy lines. But that world has rules of engagement and clear targets.
Mine is a lawless labyrinth of lies, deception, and corruption.
But dismissing Mak’s choice out of hand would be uncivil at best, and I’d rather keep his goodwill.
“Luke.” My tone is polite, but I ignore his former rank and neglect to offer him a handshake. “I appreciate you making the effort. Before we talk any further,” I carry on before he has a chance to speak, “you should get a realistic picture of what it means to work for me. I’ll have somebody give you a quick tour.” I tilt my chin at one of the security team in the corner, and a moment later, Anatoly appears at my side. “This is Luke Macarthur,” I tell him. “Show him the back rooms. Then have Rocco meet us in the Viewing Gallery in half an hour.”
The Viewing Gallery is a private room in the basement. And Rocco is an Italian barman with a tongue so skilled in the art of oral sex that he’s been known to make grown women cry.
Firing Luke on first sight might not be an option, but I can certainly make sure he quits before he ever starts.
Luke neither returns my greeting nor seems at all put out by my cold courtesy. In fact, his slight smile and bland expression don’t alter at all. He just stands with a lethal swiftness I findunsettling and leaves as silently as he has been throughout our brief meeting.
“Not a talker, then,” I say lightly, turning to Mak.
“He’s not paid to talk.” If anything, Mak looks even more amused than he did earlier.
Then again, Mak also knows exactly what happens in the Viewing Gallery.
