Beauty and the Assassin Page 13

  Chapter Sixteen

  Tolyan

  The second Monique leads us to the dressing area, I take the couch that’s the best situated for securing the area and keeping Angelika and Lizochka safe. There are mirrors set in such a way that I have a clear view of all three entrances to the room, plus the couch Elizabeth took, and where Angelika enters and exits from the dressing room.

  An assistant brings me a sweet dessert I don’t care for, but gives Lizochka and my little fawn some boring fruit and yogurt. That’s Lizochka’s favorite, but not the fawn’s, not from the longing glance she tosses at the tray resting next to me.

  Perhaps it hasn’t occurred to Monique that Angelika might want something other than fruit and yogurt. It’s a virtual certainty that the women who come here are on some diet or other. And they try to make themselves as thin as possible before trying on clothes, like their pride depends on how small the size is.

  Except they all look like they’re dressed up as overstuffed wieners on Halloween when they force their bodies into clothes too small to fit correctly.

  While Angelika’s trying on clothes, I turn on the tablet and put together a quick dossier on her. Lizochka can review it tonight before the internship interview tomorrow. I do it for all the candidates for positions at the Pryce Family Foundation. After all, we can’t hire people who are going to be problematic. That would detract from the foundation’s mission, which would upset Lizochka.

  I make sure to include all the hardships the little fawn has suffered. It isn’t difficult, especially with Roy after her, and it will even inspire empathy in Lizochka, since she herself has suffered the same thing. However, I omit the blood debt Roy Wilks owes me.

  That spineless jackal killed Lyosha’s mother—Katya. And it was my son’s tenth birthday wish that the bad guy who hurt his mommy would pay. I haven’t found a good way to do that while raising him and doing my job protecting Lizochka. But at last I have the means to make his wish come true.

  Lizochka doesn’t need to know that level of detail. It would only upset her. I don’t want Angelika knowing, either. What Roy did to Katya—may her soul rest in peace—has nothing to do with her.

  Once the dossier is complete and sent off, I go over what I managed to extract from Angelika’s phone. It wasn’t a difficult hack. Her device is old and hasn’t been updated in years. I actually had to find an older version of my favorite tracking app to put on it because it was that ancient.

  I want to know what she’s been up to since her parents’ deaths.

  Her contact list has thirty-six entries. I make a note to check them all.

  The call log shows fifty-two unknown numbers. I add them to the list.

  She doesn’t have a lot of people she keeps in touch with, which is smart and the best way to stay safe. So many people just can’t leave the past behind when they run. But every time they make contact, they’re leaving breadcrumbs for a predator to follow. It’s especially easy these days with electronic surveillance.

  I scan the data for frequency of calls. One name recurs throughout the years: Courtney.

  It doesn’t take long to pull up her profile. Courtney Young. Currently living in Philadelphia. Twenty-six years old. Caucasian female. Murky green eyes. Bottle blonde, originally brunette. Two DUIs. Two shoplifting charges. One arrest for assault, pled it down to a minor misdemeanor.

  My, my, my. Aren’t you interesting? She doesn’t fit what I imagined Angelika’s friend would be. If Courtney had shared her wild antics, I might’ve thought my little fawn likes to live bad vicariously. But that isn’t the case at all. Courtney rarely says much about herself. She’s mostly interested in how Angelika’s doing. She also never calls. Text only. No photos.

  I don’t like people who always text. You can hide so much in texts. On the other hand, she’s making it easier for me to establish a timeline of contacts and have an exact record of conversations.

  Pros and cons. Always pros and cons.

  I glance up and look at Angelika’s clothes. The mustard-yellow top is cute. But the pale cream one she tried on earlier was far superior. Besides, it fit over her breasts better.

  A beautiful woman should have the confidence to strut a little.

  I flag a clerk and ask her to send my tray to the fawn. She’s going to need it. Lizochka has boundless energy for shopping, but my fawn’s reserves are still depleted.

  A woman needs to keep up her energy. And that means more than yogurt and fruit.

  I let the system run the unknown numbers from Angelika’s phone and watch her eat. She does like it’s a sensual experience. Those whiskey eyes soften and take on a dreamy, faraway look. Then her tongue flicks out, licking around her mouth and the spoon, like she can’t bear to miss even the tiniest bit.

  If I kissed her, would she taste like tart and chocolate and berries? Would her tongue come out to stroke against mine? My guess is that she’d be experimental and slightly tentative. She’s the cautious type. She only got brave yesterday because of the package. She didn’t say anything about it, but I don’t need an explanation.

  Besides, she didn’t put on the underwear from the box this morning, which is sitting in a living room corner at home. As a matter of fact, she didn’t bother to ask if I collected it off the garage floor when I dragged her home.

  The return address is a PO box in some small shit town in Michigan nobody’s ever heard of. It’s dilapidated, its population declining like a sandbag with a hole in the bottom.

  You can’t give away houses there. But it’s a great place for a thug like him to get his mail. I’d stake my rifle collection the bastard’s residing in another city within a two- to three-hour drive.

  He didn’t become the Dealer to live in a pathetic little house in a pathetic little town.

  Lizochka is saying something about Angelika needing underwear, and Angelika vanishes inside the dressing room. I scan the output, which is as expected from someone smart enough to run for years. Most of the numbers are spam, marketing or robo-calls from politicians begging for votes. There are two that intrigue me, but they’re inactive now—a dead end.

  After about an hour or so of fussing and going back and forth, my little fawn seems to be done selecting all the bras and panties she needs. Monique sends a few evening gowns and cocktail dresses into the dressing room.

  The black Armani is classy. Very pretty, too. Makes Angelika look young and fresh.

  The yellow Dior is excellent as well. Springlike. Gives a youthful appeal.

  The red Versace is… I tap the edge of the tablet. It wraps around her like a flame, but it only makes her appear more radiant. Her skin glows, and I want to press a kiss on it to see if it’s as warm as it looks.

  An unexpected impulse. And not an ideal one. I should know better than to fall for bait.

  She tries on three more. They all look fantastic on her.

  As they should. Monique is an expert. She doesn’t let anybody waste time by trying on a hundred mediocre items with only one decent thing buried inside.

  Angelika nibbles on her lower lip as she looks over the dresses. Does she know when she does that, she draws attention to her mouth? Not only that, it makes her lips look slightly moist and swollen, like she’s been just kissed. And it makes me want to kiss her, so her mouth could be wet and swollen for all the right reasons.

  My blood heats.

  “This, and…this,” Angelika says, pointing at the black Armani and the cream Ralph Lauren.

  Good options. She shouldn’t have to limit herself, however.

  “All of them,” I say, gesturing at the seven dresses.

  “What?” Angelika yelps. “I… I don’t need this many. I can’t even think where or when I’d wear them. I mean… It’d be a huge waste of money.”

  Ah, little fawn. It’s sort of sweet how she’s worried about not having enough money, but doesn’t want to admit it. If I tell her how much the black Armani alone costs, is she going to have a heart attack?

  Her cheeks
are starting to turn pink.

  Yes, she’s going to have a heart attack. Since I don’t feel like calling 911 and dealing with the paperwork, I merely smile. “It isn’t a waste. Spending money”—on the right person—“is a beautiful thing.”

  “Um…” She blinks, like she’s having trouble processing. “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “But—”

  My eyes on hers, I pull out my credit card, held between two fingers. One of the assistants takes it.

  “You can’t! Oh my gosh, you’re already doing so much for me. I can’t impose on you like this.” Angelika cups her red cheeks with her hands. Her eyes dart back and forth between me and Monique and Lizochka.

  The poor thing is embarrassed.

  Why is it the person I want to splurge on is embarrassed about it, while people I couldn’t care less about are shameless about demanding my attention, money and time?

  I stand. “It’s my treat, little fawn.”

  “But—”

  “After all, I’m the one forcing you to buy new clothes, so it’s the least I can do.”

  Behind Angelika, Lizochka is giving me a wide-eyed look that says, Bullshit.

  I ignore her. She can ask her husband to take her shopping and buy her things.

  I instruct Monique’s staff to deliver the packages to my address. And during that time, Lizochka is whispering to Angelika, the little fawn nodding, her eyes glazed over, and her mouth opening and closing like she doesn’t know what to say.

  When she’s done talking with Lizochka, Angelika comes over. “You really don’t have to do this,” she says. “We can send most of them back.”

  “No, we can’t. No refund, no return,” I lie.

  “What?”

  “It’s true. Unless you can vomit out the mimosa, tarts and parfait in the condition they were served in…?”

  Her hands fly to cover her mouth. A mixture of horror and shock crosses her pretty little face.

  I tighten my mouth. A smile here would undermine my effort. “This is Los Angeles. Things are different here. So just enjoy the free stuff.”

  “Exactly,” Lizochka says, knowing better than to correct me. “Besides, he can afford it with all the money he’s been saving. No girlfriends to spend on.”

  I ignore her jab about my lack of romantic relationships. Lizochka thinks that just because she’s happily married, everyone should be. But she wasn’t so hot on dating for a long time herself. Not that I’ll remind her of that, since that was also the most difficult period of her life, personally speaking. “I’ll bring Angelika to the office tomorrow.”

  “For what?” Angelika says.

  Why is my little fawn acting so stunned? Why did she think I asked her to write the résumé? Just so she can say she has one?

  I never do anything without good reason, and having her get a job that will actually pay a living wage is one of them. The barista position isn’t awful, all things considered, but the café can’t possibly pay her enough for putting up with that idiot who won’t shut up about how nobly outraged he is.

  And on top of that, he’s ugly. She shouldn’t have to put up with that, either.

  “An internship position at the Pryce Family Foundation,” Lizochka says.

  “Oh.” Understanding dawns on Angelika’s face. “I haven’t applied—”

  “I sent in the résumé already,” I say. “As an employee referral.”

  Angelika’s giving me a wide-eyed look. Why is she acting like this is some unbelievable turn of events? I’m always willing to pass a résumé on. It’s just that there’s usually no reason to.

  Lizochka nods. “Exactly.”

  “I’d love to, but, um… I really need…” Angelika’s face turns redder than a ripe chili pepper. “I sort of need a job that pays me.” She says the words fast.

  Did she think I’d refer her to an unpaid position? I like efficiency, not exploitation.

  “Oh.” Lizochka tosses me a glance. “I can’t believe Tolyan didn’t tell you, but the position comes with a salary. We don’t do unpaid internships because the people who apply for them generally tend to have greater financial need than most of our employees. Not paying them would be taking advantage of their circumstances…and more than a little hypocritical, given the foundation’s mission.”

  “I see.” Angelika gives her a small smile. “Okay, I’ll be there.”

  “Excellent.” Lizochka checks her phone. “It’s Dominic. Gotta go. Thomas misses his mommy.”

  “He always misses his mother,” I say fondly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Angelika

  After Elizabeth leaves, Tolyan and I get into his car and head back to his place.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  His eyes stay on the road. “For what?”

  For taking me shopping. For introducing me to Elizabeth—who I really like and who made me feel like her friend, even though we just met. For giving me a day when I can act like a person who isn’t worried about a deranged stepbrother.

  Most importantly, for making me feel safe.

  But somehow all those things get caught in my throat. I don’t want to gush like I’m crushing on him, even though that’s exactly what’s happening.

  As attracted as I am, I’m painfully aware he’s out of my league. Way, way out. He’s smart, powerful, capable, financially secure…probably well educated and cultured, too. I’m just a twenty-something who’s put her life on hold for the last eight years. Compared to him, I haven’t accomplished anything, and despite fairytales like Cinderella and Beauty and the Beast, people tend to hang out with people who are like them in terms of education, wealth and value. We really can’t be together.

  So I just say, “For the internship. It means a lot.” All that you’ve done for me means a lot.

  “It’s nothing,” Tolyan says placidly. “Just a few clicks to send a résumé to Lizochka.”

  But would she have agreed to interview me without him sending it? I know my background is pretty pathetic, especially compared to others who probably have a lot of job experience and great college degrees and so on. It doesn’t take a genius to understand that Elizabeth is doing it as a favor to Tolyan.

  “Still. It means a lot,” I say, grateful and wondering when and how I’m ever going to be able to pay him back for everything.

  When we arrive at the penthouse, the dogs rush to meet us. Stravinsky in particular sniffs and licks my fingertips, then lets out a whine.

  I scratch behind his ears. “What’s wrong, boy?” I ask him.

  “He can smell the food you ate.”

  “Really? Still?”

  “He’s a dog. They can smell everything. This particular one thinks he can whine himself to a treat.”

  “Can he?”

  “No.” He gently taps the tip of Stravinsky’s nose. “No treat until it’s time.”

  Stravinsky gives him a baleful look.

  Tolyan narrows his eyes. “Stop complaining or you aren’t getting any.” He gestures at the kitchen counter. “Your phone,” he says. “I plugged it into the charger last night.” He scrutinizes me. “I don’t know how you can survive without a phone for so long.”

  I shrug. “I almost never check it.” Not with the way things are.

  I didn’t ask him for it this morning because it just never occurred to me. To be honest, there’s nothing exciting happening with my phone. The only thing I generally do with it is check the news, and I was distracted today. Ninety-nine percent of my inbox email is spam. I don’t do social media because there’s no point in having accounts when I can’t post anything. The risk of giving away where I am and who I might be close to is just too high. Even when I restrict my posts so that only friends can view them, I can never be sure Roy won’t find a way.

  Tolyan pours himself a drink, then gestures at me. “Let me show you the place, so you know where things are.”

  Without waiting for a response, he leads me
off. Guess this means he’s going to treat me like a temporary housemate rather than a hostage or something. It soothes the remnants of lingering reluctance I have over the fact that I’ve been forced to move in with him.

  The master bedroom is on the opposite end from my room, which turns out to be one of two guest rooms. Then comes his office, which is inaccessible except with a passcode. Guess that means to stay out. I make a note of it so I don’t inadvertently trigger a secret alarm and get myself killed by some booby trap. I haven’t forgotten what he said in the morning.

  He lets me in the office, though. Lots of computers, servers and other stuff I don’t recognize. A huge desk with three monitors. There is another door inside.

  “Where does this go?” I ask.

  “To my armory.”

  “Your…armory?”

  He nods. “In case of invasion.”

  Invasion…?

  He gives me a look. “It’s important to be prepared. Would you like to see it?”

  “Uh…” I clear my throat. Am I supposed to say yes? The idea of being near guns dampens my palms with cold sweat.

  “Never mind,” he says, like he can read the conflict on my mind. “You don’t seem that interested.” He leads me out, shutting the door. “That’s the pantry,” he says, gesturing at a space bigger than my entire garage apartment.

  I look at the towering shelves stuffed with cereal, dog food, dried goods and canned food.

  “Oh my God. That’s a lot of cream of corn.” More than half the shelves are stocked with it.

  A faint smile crosses his face. It softens him, but only a little. Still, it makes him a thousand times more approachable. “Take whatever else you like, but don’t touch any of that.”

  “Okay. But why?”

  “You know how to handle C-4?”

  My mouth dries as I try to process what he just said. “Isn’t C-4 like…a bomb or something?” I ask, my stomach suddenly jittery.

  “Metastable plastique-style malleable explo…” He sighs. “Yes.”

  “But this is a pantry,” I say. “Not an armory.”

  “In an emergency, I might not be able to reach the armory. This is a backup.”