Page 27 of The Bright and Hungry Future of Hawks

They both helped themselves to more—two glasses each.

If this was a pissing contest, and he had still not quite made his mind up about this, Ben Rider was in for a rude awakening if he thought he could drink Aleksey Primakov under the table. He’d been drinking heavily for longer than this man had actually been alive. Sometimes, even he worried that he ran on nothing but alcohol.

Aleksey pursed his lips, trying to think up a better insult than he’d apparently managed so far. Ben was studying him once more. It was disconcerting.

They both drained one glass, discarded them to a sideboard, and started on their spare. Ben then held his wine away, swirling the residue thoughtfully, holding it up to the light.

Aleksey snorted inwardly, highly amused, and waited to see what this connoisseur, this sommelier of the grape, might come up with.

“Good plonk, this.”

Glancing away and biting his lip in delight, he replied as neutrally as he could, “Yes, I know the owner of the vineyard in New Zealand. Central Otago, actually. I ask my wife’s family to import it—just to help him out, you understand.”

“Huh. Never been there.”

“Another?”

“Sure.”

He once more summoned one of the staff and plucked two glasses off the tray, adding dryly, “Pace yourself though, Benjamin. Do not forget the reason for you being here.”

Ben put out his hand, and for a moment Aleksey thought their fingers would connect on the smooth, cool stem of the goblet. “I’m not, sir. Not at all. I’m guessing we’ll get to that after dinner.”

This seemed an odd reply to Aleksey, and he was about to enquire what Ben thought they would be doing, when Ben plucked his drink away using just the rim, and Aleksey’s skin tingled where touch was absent.

He was saved having to analyse the import of this by being summoned to the hall for dinner. At the sound of ringing, Ben turned, a genuine grin of delight now lighting up his face. “Shit me. You have a man with a little bell! A bloke with an actual little bell. I’m in bloody Downton Abbey. My dad used to chuck a shoe at the back of my head when it was time to eat.”

Aleksey ran his finger around his collar, muttering silent imprecations on Ben Rider’s head. He’d known it was time to eat when the man on the next pallet fell asleep. If Ben Rider started dick-measuring hard lives, Aleksey reckoned he had that contest down pat too. He’d never hated being Sir NikolasTosspotMikkelsen more.

“I have sat you next to Lady Philipa. You seem to be getting along so famously.”

“Oh. Not with you?”

Slightly more agreeable response.

“Well, you know, men, women…” He made a vague gesture with his fingers to demonstrate people sitting side by side.

Ben scrunched his nose, watching everyone else depart. “I kinda hoped we’d be talking about the job at last.”

“Ah. Well, I will be sitting across from you. I expect I will take the opportunity to continue my assessment.”

Ben snapped his head around, his wistful look replaced with an eye narrowing of suspicion. “Uh-huh. Against what criteria, sir?”

Aleksey decided he hadn’t used his most irritating shrug for while, so gave it an airing, but then added, as if merely an afterthought, “Ones of my own invention, actually, honed over many years of judging men.” Doing something that involved men, anyway.

Ben bit his lip briefly, helped himself to a final drink from a passing tray, then called the waiter back and shoved another at Aleksey.

“How does that usually work out for you?”

“Inventing my own or judging men?”

There was a pause. “Judging men.”

“I have had some successes.”

“So you’ve failed sometimes too.”

Counting to ten was definitely not helping.

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