Body Checked (Center Ice Book 1) (7 page)

I approach the hostess counter and toss my curls to one shoulder as I lean over the stand. “I’m here for the . . . Drakonov party,” I whisper, trying not to let the other waiting guests hear. Sergei didn’t say so explicitly, but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want the whole world knowing we’re here.

“Sorry,” the hostess chirps. “I don’t have any reservations under that name.”

I rock back on my high heels. For one brief moment, I imagine the past few days have all been an elaborate prank someone’s pulled on me. Of course I haven’t actually caught the eye of Saint Sergei, the Russian Dragon. Who do I think I am, stomping into Pluribus on these ridiculous heels I never wear, cutting in front of all these high-paid lobbyists and senators? But then it hits me.

“Try Pushkin,” I say, grinning to myself.

The hostess reaches for a menu and hands it off to the nearest server. “Right this way, miss.”

She leads me through the dimly lit main dining hall, aglow with the soft mood lighting and candles and a wall of lights that dazzle and undulate, separating the diners from the kitchen, and up a narrow staircase. We step out into an open-air brick courtyard on top of the main restaurant, split into a labyrinth of private alcoves. As we pass them, only the faintest sounds of conversation and scraping plates escapes; I can’t see the faces of any of the diners, which I’m sure is the point. An arbor of vines hangs low overhead, threaded through with elegant strands of light, permitting only the occasional glimpse of the star-spangled Washington night sky.

“Here we are. The Jefferson table.”

She stops at one edge of the courtyard. On two and a half sides it’s surrounded by brick walls, one of which sports a quietly gurgling fountain beside the wooden table for two. The fourth side of the private room is wide open, spilling out onto a breathtaking vista of Washington: the White House, the Washington Monument, and the spires of the Smithsonian Castle in the distance. I suck in my breath. Unless I’m crashing at Monique’s pad, my view usually consists of waterstained drywall and shoe-level sidewalk views from my basement studio.

“I hope it’s to your liking?” the server asks, her face smooth as butter. She moves and sounds like a robot set to Pleasant but Detached.

“It’s perfect,” I manage to say, around the bundle of nerves lodged in my throat. “Thank you.”

She takes my drink order—some wildly delicious- and alcoholic-sounding cocktail of honey and bourbon and other liquors I can’t pronounce—and vanishes into the night.

I set my purse beside me on the wooden bench and settle in. My purse just looks embarrassing in this setting—battered black, the leather veneer peeled and cracking, the off-brand logo long since worn away. I reach in and check my phone to make sure it’s recording.

Then wait.

And wait.

I cross my legs one way, then switch to the other way when they start to go numb. The server brings my drink. It tastes like an autumn harvest in my mouth, it’s so freaking good, but I’m afraid to have more than a sip without knowing how long I’m going to be waiting. The Secret Service agents scurry like little black ants along the roof of the White House; the National Mall twinkles with hundreds of headlights as the sky melts from indigo to black.

Have I been stood up? I check my phone; no texts from Sergei or anyone else. Maybe I should call Frederica and let her know what’s happening. I press my face into one hand. The only thing worse than having to lead Sergei on on behalf of the FBI is to
fail
at leading Sergei on on behalf of the FBI.

“
Bozhe moi.
I am so, so sorry. I look like a tremendous asshole.”

Sergei Drakonov rushes into the private alcove, a hoodie slung over his head and dark sunglasses swallowing up his face. The server who brought him vanishes into the background. I start to stand up to greet him, then freeze, unsure what to do. Hug him?  Kiss him? Shake his hand?

Fortunately, he decides for me, and cups my face in both his hands. “You look incredible. Velvety as the night.”

My face burns bright red. He leans in and kisses me on the tip of my freckled nose, then releases me, and starts peeling out of his disguise. Underneath the hoodie, he’s dressed incredibly—a tight button-down shirt and those jeans that drape against his muscular legs just so. I catch myself straining to view his backside and slump back onto the bench with an embarrassed grin.

Sergei sits down beside me, so we’re both facing out into the Washington night sky. “Sorry for the big production. I had a feeling you’d know, though, what name to give.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t ask for Lermontov.” I nudge him in the ribs with my elbow. Oh. My. I’d forgotten about the ridges of muscle on those ribs. I feel my skin burning all over again. “Have the tabloids been that relentless?”

“Like you wouldn’t even believe.” He groans. “First they wouldn’t stop asking me about what happened to my lip, then, after I punched that Winnipeg guy, they can’t talk about anything else.”

“Well, it was a magnificent punch, worthy of a Dostoevsky novel.” I grin. “Did he seriously call Wright the n-word?”

“It happens all the time on the ice. Guys will say anything to get inside your head. You don’t want to know what they say about me.” Sergei shrugs, though his smile has faded. “That’s why I don’t like to let them see the real me. Because then, no matter what they say, it’s like it’s not even really me they’re attacking. It’s someone else entirely.”

In spite of myself, I’m reaching for his face, brushing my fingers against his still-swollen lower lip. I’d heard what he said in the interview—that he got injured in practice. Yet he hadn’t explained it any further than that. None of his teammates had said a word about it. Sergei’s eyes lid as I touch his lip, and his breath gusts over my fingertips as he exhales, slow.

“What really happened?” I ask. I try to keep the question light, but I can’t shake the feeling that it has something to do with his brother.

Sergei sighs, and closes a hand around mine. He kisses my fingertips, sending a thrill through my arm, then lowers both our hands to my lap. “I can’t lie to you, Jael.”

My shoulders tense. This is it. Part of me hopes desperately he’s speaking loudly enough for my phone to record it, but the rest of me? It wants to keep this moment for myself.

“But there are some things I can’t discuss. With you, or—or with anyone.” His fingers loosen around mine. “Please trust me when I say it’s for the best.”

I can already imagine Frederica and Chief Ha shouting at me to push him harder, to try and coax out whatever secret he’s locked away behind those cold Siberian eyes. It’s not like it’s completely unknown—a few of the news outlets have made vague whispers about his family being mixed up in some bad shit along the Eastern seaboard, though everyone knows better than to name names. To utter that which shall not be uttered.
Bratva
. The Slavic mafia boogeyman lurking in the night.

But this is more than some titillating crime drama to be gobbled up in the news. This is personal for Sergei—a private pain. He’d told me what it was like to grow up with nothing in Moscow; how his brother took the first chance he could to make something of himself. Sergei could have followed him into the mafia back then, but he chose not to—he chose to pursue his real passion of hockey. To do honest work. He deserves some respect for that.

I lick my lips. My throat feels impossibly dry. “Well,” I force myself to say, “if you ever change your mind, I promise I’ll listen.”

Sergei smiles again, so bright it lights me up inside. “
Milaya devushka.
”
My darling one.
 

The server arrives, arms loaded up with small plates that she passes out for us. “This is a sampler of our best dishes. I’ll allow you to work on this in private, but if you wish for anything further, just ring the bell.” She gestures to a velvet cord I hadn’t even noticed, attached to a brass bell over our dining nook’s entrance. Some straight-up Downton Abbey-level shit. My god, what is this strange world I’ve stumbled into?

Sergei scoops up a piece of bread laden with mushrooms, goat cheese, and a million different herbs, and brings it to my lips. “First taste is yours.”

I try to take a dainty bite, but I end up tearing off half the bread with it. Juicy bits of olive oil run down my chin. I laugh, nearly choking on the wonderful warm bite, and try to catch the food before it spills all over my nice dress.

“Here.” Sergei unfolds his napkin. “Let me help you with that.”

He dabs at my chin as I swallow down my food. His grinning mouth, pink and ripe, is mere inches from mine. Suddenly, I no longer taste the food. All I can remember is the taste of his mouth on mine—the feel of his powerful hips between my thighs—

Sergei wipes away the juice from my chin, then smirks. “Oops. Missed a spot.”

Then leans in and kisses the corner of my mouth.

I suck in my breath. My skin goes instantly cold as he backs away. All I want is to feel his warm flesh on mine, again and again.

“Tell me about
your
week,” Sergei says, as we sample the other dishes brought out. “You know how mine went. I’d just like to hear something good.”

I lace my hands together in my lap. “I don’t know about all that. My life is pretty boring. Just trying to survive my last few classes . . . looking for work for once I graduate.”

This is dangerous territory for me, talking about my career ambitions, and I know it. I glance toward my purse, and my phone at the top of my heap of crap within. I feel like my phone is radioactively bright and blinding, like it’s so obvious what I’m doing. A bead of sweat rolls down my bared back.

“And what sort of work might that be?” Sergei asks.

I swallow. It sounds so loud in my ears. “Well, I’m . . . starting to rethink my original plans.”

“Not much money in Russian literature?” he asks, watching me with a sparkle in his eyes.

I force myself to laugh nervously. “Yeah. You could say that.”

Sergei clasps his drink and rolls it around with his wrist, then takes a slow sip. Everything about his movements is so controlled and refined. Disciplined—that’s what it is. The discipline of an athlete who’s aware of everything around him as well as his own body. Am I really fooling him at all? Surely he can see right through me. Suddenly, I’ve lost my appetite.

“It’s good to be flexible,” Sergei says.

My temperature spikes, recalling the ever so flexible way he pinned me up against his dining room wall and fucked me raw. “You certainly don’t have any problems there.”

He laughs, close-lipped, and slips one arm around my shoulders. “It’s good not to plan your life in advance. Because it always, always changes. Know where you’re heading toward, but always be ready to react.”

“Ahh,” I say, “a hockey analogy.”

He laughs again and twists one finger in my hair. “Hey, I never said that
I
was a poet, I just appreciate the art.” His gaze drifts from my face, toward the Washington night scene before us. A red light flashes atop the Washington Monument; a ring of flags flutters in the spotlights at its base. “Take me coming to America, for instance. I just . . . I don’t know if it can last.”

I jerk toward him, undisguised shock on my face. “What? Why would you say that?”
And is it because of his brother?
I’m dying to ask. But I have to be patient. Unlike Frederica and Chief Ha, I don’t want to push too much.

“It’s just . . .” Sergei sighs and sets down his cocktail. “It’s not what I expected. Both the good parts and the bad. I thought it would be a new beginning for me, you know? I could be myself a little more than I could back in Russia, where everyone expects you to play a rigid role, and no one wants you to stray from it.” He pulls his arm from me. “Ultimately, it’s why I ended my engagement with Anastasia.”

The Russian gymnast. “Not because of all the supermodels you were sleeping with in the Mediterranean?”

Sergei snorts, and looks at me sideways—wounded. “It’s for show. It’s all for show. When you’re rich in Russia, you’re expected to show your gratitude, and that means accepting whatever is bestowed upon you by your benefactors. Fast cars, fast women, the works. They like for you to remember where your money comes from—and that they can take it away just as easily. Anastasia . . . she was much the same way.”

“That sounds horrible.” I grip the edge of the bench. I’ve slid my heels off under the table, and swing my bare legs back and forth. “Yet you’re not happy here, either?”

“I thought it would be a new beginning for me here. But here, there are different people I must please. It isn’t as direct as it was in Russia, but still it exists.”

People like his brother? I chew on my lower lip. “Why? Who . . . who do you have to please now?” My entire body is tensed up, like I’m bracing for a blow. But I have to ask it. For the FBI—and for myself.

“Just . . . businesspeople. I don’t know. They’re not important.” Sergei waves it away.

Shit. So much for that. “I didn’t realize you cared so much, then, what people thought.”

“It’s part of the territory.” He picks up his drink and finishes it. By the time he sets it down, he’s smiling again. “But I should be focusing on the good. All the
wonderful
things that make it worthwhile here. The people who really matter.”

I glance at him through my eyelashes.

“Like these incredibly hot, insanely smart Brazilians who keep landing in my arms.”

I stifle a laugh. I want to turn away, but I can’t stop looking at him—those dazzling eyes and that jawline so sharp I could cut myself on it. He slips one hand between my thighs and I suck in my breath. Why, oh, why did I wear such a ridiculously short dress?

“I missed you,” Sergei murmurs, right in my ear. His fingers trace a slow circle against my thigh. “It’s a new sensation for me. Missing someone. Can’t say I’m a fan.”

“I don’t expect anything.” I try to keep a serious expression on my face, though his fingers are like a match striking against my skin. “If you aren’t looking for commitment, I understand.”

“I’ve never looked for it before.” He smells so warm, so fiery. It’s burning me up inside. “But you make me want to be better.”