Page 55 of Beastly Armory
“What is that thing?”
With my upper lip curled in a snarl, I tell him, “None of your business. Keep your hands to yourself, lion.”
“How about you keep my hands for me?” Narrowing my eyes at him, his face brightens until he releases a hearty chuckle. “Okay, foxy. Let’s go.” His cologne, his minty breath, his amazingly sculpted muscles filling out his stretched suit… it’s all annoying the shit out of me.
Throughout the silent car ride, Max fiddles with his suit buttons, his hands, looking at theview, checks his hair out in the mirror, constantly moving. That irritates me, too. Around some beautiful winding roads that lead us along the water’s edge, we almost drive into a mountain tunnel, but just before the entrance is a cobblestone gated drive. Lanterned house numbers dangle from the glass gates, glowing with the address Nick gave me.
“This the place?” Max asks as I drive up to a black metal box on the side, and I press a large silver button, announcing our arrival. The walls slide open for us, and I pull in around an ornate triple tiered fountain.
The house is something out of a seaside magazine. It’s as large as the Von Dovish estate, and bright white, even in the evening’s dying sun. Each window glows with a landscape spotlight and seems outfitted with its own porch. Gables and shingles spawn from every eave of the roof. Guest houses surround an Olympic-size pool behind a hedge wall on our right and the house opens to an L-shape on our left. Despite its vast size, the estate is beautiful and homey.
Four men in cream linen suits exit the front and approach the Victor, opening the car doors for us and immediately pat us down as we alight. My guard takes his time around my ass after removing my Glock and sliding the full magazine out before he slips it into his pocket. He checks the empty chamber, then hands the gun back to me. Fortunately, he didn’t spot my knife as I notice Max’s deep eyes drift to my boot, making sure it’s still there. Slyly, I nod to him once.
A squirrely looking man with a bowtie and round wire-rimmed glasses approaches from behind the wall ofsuited guards. “Mr. Freidenberg. Miss Von Dovish. I’m Ovid, Mr. Nikolai’s secretary. Please, come with me. This way.” On a heel of his Italian loafer, he spins quickly toward the house while we follow.
Ovid leads us through the massive white halls to an office located in one of the rounded corners of the house. A lit fire keeps out the draft of the cool autumn air, creating a cozy room along with several overstuffed wing-backed chairs. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases cover the walls, filled with thick leather tomes of varying heights.
Behind a massive, whitewashed desk sits a muscular guy, probably in his late 40s, with a sprinkling of gray at the temples of his onyx hair and mustache. The broad smile betrays where his black eyes stare at my tits, and I feel the need to cross my arms over my chest. Max’s shoulders drop as he scans the room with his mouth slightly opened.
“Please, please. Have a seat. I am Tony Nikolai. It’s wonderful to meet you.” As he indicates the two chairs in front of him, his gaze focuses like lasers on my face. Max lounges in his seat, kicking one ankle over his opposite knee, while I teeter on the edge. Something about Tony’s stare is unnerving, along with his sharply handsome appearance.
“Can I offer either of you a drink?”
“No, thank you,” I say.
At the same time, Max says, “Do you have bourbon?”
Mr. Nikolai smiles and rises from his chair, then pours a double for the two of them before handing Max a glass without ever really seeing him. A waft from expensiveoak greets my nose as my partner swirls his before taking a sip and my dry mouth regrets declining.
With a creak, Mr. Nikolai sits back in his maroon leather seat and addresses me. “Miss Von Dovish, I don’t know if you know me, but I knew your mother. I knew her family well. Very well, actually. Did she ever mention me?”
Wracking my mind, I try to recall anything about my mother’s childhood. His confession shocks me because, as a young girl from France, my mother never mentioned knowing a Russianfamilymember. “Um…no. I’m sorry.”
“We were engaged to be married.”
My breath catches, and if I thought I couldn’t get more surprised by his previous words, now I’m stunned. Falling open, my mouth makes some type of noise like, “Oh?” He knew her that well? Did she love him? Could he have saved her?
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Max watching our conversation like a tennis match. Tony folds his hands in front of him as if he’d prepared very well for our meeting.
“Yes. I was quite smitten with her.” His smile falters. “Unfortunately, she ran away with that piece of shit. Excuse me, your father.”
Taking a deep breath in, my throat relaxes. “No, no. You had it right the first time.”
Mr. Nikolai chuckles. “It’s a good thing he disappeared. It’s not only Strauss looking for him.” His eyebrows come closer together, casting a shadow over hispitch-colored eyes, giving him the look of someone possessed.
“Uh, Nikolai?”
“Please, call me Tony. Did anyone ever tell you that you look just like your mother?” Barely noticeable, the tip of his tongue juts out to snag a drop of bourbon from his bottom lip.
I find that my head is slowly nodding as I answer him. “Yes. We were very close.” But not close enough that I knew about Tony. Why wouldn’t she mention him? Would my father have beaten her for talking about it?
Tony’s not wearing a wedding band. What if he wants a night with me? What if he wants to marry me? Suddenly, Max seems to sense my tension and leans forward in his chair, his smile vanishing as Tony’s stare heats up my body.
“I want something from you, Miss Von Dovish.”
“Livia,” I correct him with some fluttering of my eyelashes. Maybe it’s the fact that I can sense Max’s jealousy from one foot away, but I decide to use my feminine whiles to their fullest. If Tony wants me and we want his guns, may as well. The only kink in the chain would be if the bear loses his temper.
“Livia.” With a flick of his tongue against his teeth, he sounds out my name like it’s a love song. Max opens his mouth but shuts it again as I tilt my head to catch his awareness. “I want something from you, Livia. I understand you”—he looks at Max for the first time—“and Mr. Freidenberg need rifles. I have plenty foryour arsenal, as many as you desire. I’ve always felt an urge to spoil Yvette’s daughter.”