Page 11 of Kept in the Dark
“D-Lev,” I remember almost too late.
Fuck. I almost gave her my real name. I am clearly too distracted to be here with her, but now that I am, I cannot pull myself away.
Her hand in mine is warm, dry, and calloused, and her handshake is firm. When we touch, her fingers brush the scabs on my knuckles, and her eyes drop to the nearly healed skin before she lets go.
“Lev,” she repeats the name.
“Nicole,” I say, enjoying the flavor of hers.
“What happened to your hand, Lev?”
A deep grumble escapes my chest at the sound of the wrong name in her musical voice. Jealously, I do not want to hear her speak another man’s name. I want to know what she looks like wrapping her lips aroundmyname. I want to hear her scream it in ecstasy.
She misinterprets the noise for something else, because she hurries to explain herself, “Not to be nosy… I’m an ER nurse. It’s hard-wired in me to ask.”
“I got into a fight.”
Her eyes flick back down, but her posture does not change. A small, secret smile of what might be amusement curls at the edges of her mouth. She is not easily rattled by violence, then. This is good. “You must have won.”
“You could say that. What gave it away?”
“Your hand is torn up, but your face is good. I mean… it hasn’t been hit,” she corrects needlessly. “Obviously, you were the one landing the hits.”
“Perhaps the fight was a bit one-sided,” I allow, thinking of how Felix’s witness was tied to a chair for most of it.
Her lips twitch. “I’m not surprised. It’s probably hard to find another person big enough for you to pick on someone your own size.”
“Da,” I agree.
Most people are afraid, intimidated or in awe of my height and frame. She pokes fun at it. And this is why I like large women.
“Da,” she repeats, tasting the word in a way that drags my eyes back to her mouth with a fresh hunger. “I like the accent. I’m guessing Russian, given the rest of the guest list.”
“Da,” I say again, reveling in the little shiver that crawls across her skin.
“All the way from Russia. What are you doing in New Jersey? Other thanadmiring the viewwith a stranger.”
As she speaks, I watch her lips, admiring their fullness. I do not realize at first that she has teased me until they tip up at the corners in an expectant smile. “It is not my usual way,” I reply. “You must be an exception.”
“Nice. Now call her an exceptional woman,”James offers.
“Shh, let him work,”Wesley chides.
Fuck. I had forgotten about my gallery of nuts. Their commentary snaps me out of the spell created by the moonlight and an unexpected encounter with temptation.
Right. My cover. The job. Viktor Volkevich.
This woman is not for me—our flirtations are not a private, shared moment. I should ensure thebratokhas left and return to the house. I still have photographs to take.
But then she says, “An exception. I like that. Does that make me special, or lucky?” and I know I will not be leaving her side anytime soon.
“That depends on your perspective. Do you normally consider yourself special or lucky to be followed into a dark garden by a stranger?”
Her laugh is breathless; her stare is a challenge. “Thatdepends on the stranger’s intentions. I’ll admit I have my doubts about yours.”
“You are questioning my intentions?”
“Well, you did follow a stranger into a dark garden,” she says in a delightfully throaty, teasing way. “But I suppose they could be good. Pure, even.”
