Taking the Bait: An ARC Operatives Romance (2 page)
Read Taking the Bait: An ARC Operatives Romance Online
Authors: Audrey Noire
Chapter Two
Nicolai was the son of a shipping magnate (his blond locks dyed a dark nut-brown, and damn did it suit his complexion, Daria had thought), she was a Brown University graduate. They’d ‘met’ at the end of her third year when he’d accompanied his father to give a key-note speech at a University event. He proposed on the day of her graduation. The ring was a bespoke champagne peach-pink cushion-cut sapphire surrounded by diamonds set in rose-gold, and damn, but she had to hand it to Balfour because the man was oddly romantic in his ring choices when he’d presented out the accoutrements of the job for them. Their wedding occurred exactly one year and three months later, and she had the pictures on her new fakey-fake Facebook profile to prove it. It had been a personal family affair on a private island frequented by high profile stars, and her dress had been a custom Vera Wang (the photo shoot for that had been a bitch: she’d been sweaty and exhausted; Nicolai had been grumpy about both having to wear a suit on the beach and not being allowed to zip around and mess up his hair). Despite their whirlwind romance, they were vaguely unhappy as he spent too many nights away working, and she was rumoured to be sleeping with her pool-boy. Scandal.
This trip was to reignite the passions of their romance, six months into a rocky-start to a marriage, or at least that was the story. It gave them an excuse to be cool with each other publicly, or overly amorous, depending on what the situation required. The main goal was to gather intelligence on a few high-profile businessmen that were attending. That’s why they’d been perfect for the job, as Balfour explained. Daria was the nubile, just-barely-debauched bored wife, and Nicolai was the arrogant young upstart who thought he knew everything but how to please a newly-wed woman. In other words as Rykov had said with a surprisingly straight face, she was the bait and Nicolai was the escape. He could get her out of there if things went south.
She eyed up the ridiculously embellished gown that was hanging from the back of the bathroom door. The thing literally cost more than she made in a month, and would turn her into some 1920’s disco ball, with it’s peach lining and sheer black mesh overlay littered with square paillette sequins and beads. Daria sighed and turned back to her mirror, setting her makeup with one last layer of powder to tamp down on her first-op jitters. Rykov had been in half an hour earlier to help her with her hair, because while Daria could do her long brown hair into lazy waves in her damned sleep, the evening conference required something a little more formal and there was no way she could yank a knit beanie down over her cowlick and call it good. She slicked another layer of crimson red lipstick on and surveyed herself critically.
“I think that is about as good as it gets,” Nicolai was behind her in an instant, the breeze of his rapid movement making her hair ruffle, his eyes meeting her reflection’s. She scowled at him in the mirror, dropping her tube of lipstick to cross an arm over her breasts even if they were contained by more layers of lace and silk than were necessary. He was standing there, bare footed in his neatly pressed slacks, the top button of his shirt undone and she could just barely see the divot of his collarbone. Despite his humble upbringing, he looked good in an expensive suit, especially one tailored impeccably to his body. She mentally snapped her fingers at herself.
“One? Rude. Two? You’ve got a bathroom out there, and the bedroom is my domain, not yours. That was the deal. You get the living room with the pull out couch and that crazy kitchenette with a fully-stocked vodka cooler, and I get the bedroom with the soaker tub.” She turned, folding another arm over her breasts and glared up at her ‘husband’. His eyes tumbled down her front and then he rolled them, zipping over to her dress in a blur. It irritated her like an itch she couldn’t scratch that he was constantly tapping into his augmented power even when it wasn’t necessary. If he moved by her too closely it would mess up her carefully styled hair as well.
“You were taking too long,” he complained, running a finger over the long, elegant sleeve of the dress, “and I am bored.” She huffed and stood, marching over to him although it had less effect due to the plush carpet muffling her stomping.
“Don’t touch the dress,” she ordered sharply, even as he took it down in spite of her words and held it out so she could take it. He leaned back against the door, letting it click shut under his weight as his eyes met hers. She grabbed the hanger and pointed at the door that lead to the living area of their suite. “Seriously, there’s a big flat screen and some shitty porn out there with your name on it. Go entertain yourself.”
“How am I supposed to complain of how long my pretty wife takes to get ready if I have not observed the process?” he asked, shrugging one shoulder and quirking an eyebrow. She hated that eyebrow, had learnt to hate it during training. It always meant he was in a mood, and that mood was be as annoying as possible. She turned away from him and walked to the bed, pulling the dress delicately off it’s hanger and laying it down on the bed so that she could unzip it.
“Men like you don’t watch their wives dress. They’re too busy smoking cigars and talking about all the money they have.” The dress pooled silkily on the floor as she stepped into it and pulled it up her figure delicately- there was no way she wanted any snags or lost sequins before the night had even begun.
“Mmm, the reason we are having marital problems in the first place, yes?” he asked, and then with another brush of air current he was right behind her, his fingers tugging gently at the back of her dress. She let out a breath and was about to snap at him to cut out the games when he murmured, “the zipper was going to catch on your slip. Let me-” She felt him slowly, so slowly, pull the zipper tab up her back, tracing the gentle slope of her spine. His knuckles traced a heated line through her slip, preceding the zipper as it went. The dress settled over her shoulders, feeling heavy with all the beading, something like armor. His fingers just brushed the back of her neck for a moment, a ghostly touch she barely felt, and then he was gone, at the door, clearing his throat. “How much longer do you need? Not even my sister would take this long.”
The sensitive skin at the nape of her neck was still tingling from his touch, the effect he’d had on her having taken her fully by surprise. It’s just nerves for tonight, she thought, pre-op jitters. Rykov warned you about this, so get ahold of yourself, and she exhaled to calm herself.
“I’m almost ready, ass, just let me put on my shoes. Don’t forget your jacket, you’re not even done yourself yet.” She looked down at her suitcase, pulling out the pair of heels that would bring her eyes up above his shoulder (he was tall, she was short, but her slight height and stature made for a more likely escape in the event of an emergency if he had to fireman carry her out of a bad situation), and when she glanced at the door he was gone, presumably finishing with his own prep. She bent and wiggled her heels on, before walking out of the bedroom. The shoes, at least, were comfortable for ones that were taller than she normally bothered with. Chucks and cute ballet flats were her mainstay, but Rykov had hammered into her the art of walking like a delicate butterfly in stilettos.
Nicolai was standing by the mirror at the door, straightening his tie and then fastening his cufflinks before he turned to look at her. An odd frown crossed his face before vanishing, and she clutched a little tighter at the beaded and fringed purse that was tangled in her one hand. During training he’d alternated between joking around with her and giving her the cool-silent treatment, and never once had he even flirted with her despite his reputation for being a total man-whore. If he made a practice of eye-fucking everything with legs, that moment in the bedroom where he’d eyed her up as she put on her makeup had been the first she’d seen of it being directed at her. She wasn’t sure how she felt about it either, since they had a job to do, and personas to fill, he was probably just getting a jump start on their whole love-you-hate-you marriage facade. He lifted a long velvet box off the black-marble counter and flipped it open. Inside a single strand of diamonds set in a matching rose-gold to her ring lay on a bed of cream silk, and he lifted it out with gentle fingers, mindful of the hidden camera and microphone contained within the centre diamond. He motioned for her to turn.
“Really? I’ve been dressing myself for at least 23 years, I think I can handle-” her words cut off with a yip when he blurred and was behind her, pulling the necklace around her neck and fastening it.
“I am faster,” he said, and for the second time that evening (and what she hoped would be the last), the skin on the back of her neck shivered and tingled at his nearness. It was annoying.
“Fine, got it. Fast. Let’s go, at a more leisurely pace though. I’m not ripping my dress unless we’re making a grand escape.” She moved to the door, but of course he was there already, opening it for her and offering her his arm. At the first hint of light from the hall, she fell into her role, and clasped her hand lightly on his forearm. He smiled down at her, pouring on the charm, and she didn’t have to act with the way her body was warming just in his presence. He was damn good at his job, had the smoulder of a husband in his eyes and everything. He lead her out, the door clicking shut behind them as they made their way to the elevators.
“Let us try to enjoy ourselves this weekend, darling,” he said smoothly, voice a low purr as another couple approached from down the hall. He reached out to press the button, and smiled at the elderly gentleman and his very young wife that met them there. Daria thought the girl was younger than her, and wondered for one ridiculous moment if her older husband had traded in for a newer model (most definitely given the size of the rock on the woman’s finger), and if looking at her and Nicolai made him think of his first wife who had been long discarded. She must’ve clenched her hand on Nicolai’s arm, because he shot her a look, his eyebrow barely raising in concern. She loosened her grip as the elevator came.
“I love your dress,” gushed the other woman suddenly as they stepped into the elevator. “It’s a Temperly, right? I adore them. Eldrich says he may as well buy shares in their parent company what with all the money I’ve been giving them, he might get some cash back from the dividends.”
Daria smiled at her blandly, and looked down, skimming a finger over one of the longer paillettes draped over the curve of her hip. The woman’s husband eyed her for a moment and then glanced at Nicolai with an amused and patronizing expression as the floors ticked down.
“Oh, this thing,” Daria said with a bored sigh, “it was a surprise for our six month wedding anniversary.” She petted loosely at Nicolai’s chest with her fingertips, as if she didn’t care to touch him all that closely. As they exited the elevator, Nicolai murmured in her ear, just loudly enough for the other man to hear,
“It would have looked better on the bedroom floor than on you, if you would have bothered to come home that night.” His blue eyes were bright and intense in his face, the picture of a sexually frustrated and thwarted husband. It took her breath away for a moment, and for a split second she wondered how much of that basic want in his expression was real and how much was the game they were playing. She looked away to gather her thoughts. They walked down the open hallway to the ballroom for that evening’s wine tasting and informal meet and greet with the other conference attendees.
“Talk like that and you won’t be seeing it on the floor tonight either,” she finally hissed back, and was pleased to see the couple they’d come down with beating a hasty trail to get out of the bubble of domestic dispute brewing between her and Nicolai. She could do this, she had a handle on it, and so did Nicolai apparently… a few minutes in and she was already relaxing into the role easily, and was proud that he was as well. Unless something major came up, and both Balfour and Rykov hadn’t expected anything to, she thought they could totally pull this off as a successful first mission together. They’d behave themselves once they got in the room, but the marital tension would give them an excuse to part company throughout the night when they needed to.
A long bar was set up at the far end of the ballroom, and Daria made a beeline for it the moment Nicolai peeled away from her to join a cluster of older businessmen near the entrance. Once she had a cocktail firmly in her hand (virgin, although none of the glitterati would know because the bartender was an ARC operative planted there), she idly milled through the crowd of dark suits and glittering dresses until she found her husband again. He was talking in furtive tones with an elderly gent wearing what had to be a $50,000 suit, given the diamond-adorned cufflinks he was sporting that probably out-valued even the suit itself (she’d totally aced the mini-course on pricing garments and accessories during basic training). Daria wondered how much pent up rage was boiling in Nicolai’s gut, since he had a more Marxist view of what defined a bourgeoisie. Growing up eating plain spaghetti and only being allowed to turn the heat on a few hours a day had given him a general disdain for the haves since his family had been so very much one of the have-nots, at least from what he’d told her the few times they’d spoken of family.
“Ah, there she is-
Mila
, please come meet my new dear friend, Mr. Bouvier. Mr. Bouvier, my wife, Mrs. Daria Dushku,” Nicolai smiled at her more affectionately than before, placing his broad hand on the small of her back and urging her forward. She surged a little into Mr. Bouvier’s personal space, and held out her hand to shake it. She knew his face from the profiles, he specialized in moving high-priced goods for leaders of the free and not-so-free world, and by goods the dossier had meant designer drugs, exotic wildlife, and sex slaves. Her skin was crawling before he ever touched her. The older man grabbed her fingers none-too-gently and hauled them up towards his mouth, planting a bristling and wet kiss onto the back of her hand. She tensed for a microsecond and then relaxed, as smiling warmly as she was able to.