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Viktor could feel his blood boil. “Did they harm her?”
“Down boy. They scared her more than anything.” Fitz chuckled. “When we were getting her out, she could barely walk she was so weak. But she made Nigel turn her loose so she could kick her chief tormentor’s balls up into his body cavity.”
“What did they want with her?”
“The location of a recovered artifact and the name of the person who hired them. Emerson would give them neither. Nigel wasn’t sure the bastard would ever father children.”
Viktor smiled. So, she was a fighter and a survivor.
“I’m warning you, Viktor.”
“I’m to steer clear of her? What if I don’t want to?”
“I didn’t say that. I can see you’re attracted to the girl; I’m just saying have a bit of care with her feelings. I don’t know that she knows anything about the lifestyle, but your brand of dominance might be too much for a tourist.”
“I don’t know, Fitz; sometimes tourists are the ones who decide they’ve found their home and never want to leave.”
Viktor turned back to look over the ballroom, his eyes searching for Emerson. When he found her, he didn’t like what he saw. Oliver Toney had all but cornered her. She looked a little like a deer caught in the headlights. Toney was an older man—a widower, some said, but Viktor had never been convinced he hadn’t had a hand in his wife’s death. Emerson looked decidedly uncomfortable before she managed to escape. She headed out to the balcony, tipping back her champagne flute and draining it dry before she opened the door to go outside.
A passing waiter wandered by to collect Viktor’s empty glass. Snatching two full ones from the waiter’s tray, Viktor turned a predatory grin on Fitz. “Do me a favor and call the club. Tell them I won’t be in tonight.”
Fitz chuckled. “Oh, how the mighty have fallen.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“What is he talking about?” asked JJ as she joined them, melting into her husband’s sturdy frame as he wrapped his arm around her.
“Nothing that doesn’t fall under the category of not coming between a Dom and his sub.”
JJ followed Viktor’s glance. “Emerson Ravenel is no man’s sub and never will be. Fitz might not stop you and can remind me all about Doms and their subs, but he’s not the only one who can put people in place to ensure you back off.”
“You will not send any of our people to do your dirty work. None of the boys will do that again,” Fitz growled.
“Who said I’d ask one of the boys? Last time I checked, our two best snipers were both women.”
Viktor chuckled as he backed away from them. “Trust me, JJ, I won’t do anything she isn’t begging me to do.” He turned to make his way to the balcony and the woman who had piqued his interest in a way no other woman ever had.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” JJ mumbled before muffling a shriek in what Viktor was sure was a response to Fitzwallace’s hand connecting with her ass. Fitz might be indulgent where she was concerned, but he took the lifestyle seriously and made sure JJ was always aware of who was the Dom and who was the sub.
Leaving the bright light of the ballroom behind, it took his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness of the balcony and a moment more to spot Emerson Ravenel half-hidden behind a tall potted Owari Satsuma Mandarin Tree. The top half of the tree was effective at hiding her, but the lower portion with only its trunk did a poor job.
“Ms. Ravenel? I saw you had an empty glass of champagne. As one of tonight’s patrons, I thought it incumbent upon me to see that was remedied.”
She peeked around the edge of the tree that was laden with fruit. It was hard to read the expressions that crossed her face, as they went by so rapidly. Viktor wasn’t sure if she was going to bolt, sink back behind the tree, or come out and take the offered champagne flute.
“I’m fine,” she finally said, not moving at all.
“You don’t have to have any champagne, but you also don’t have to hide behind a tree.” Viktor took a step forward. She looked like she wanted to retreat but didn’t. He lowered his voice. “I have to tell you; your choice of hiding places is a poor one. You don’t exactly fit behind that small tree.”
She stepped out boldly. “Are you calling me fat, Mr. Romanov?”
“Never. I had a great-great-grandmother who survived the Russian Revolution and a great-aunt who was a jackdaw during World War II. Both of them would bash me over the head with their umbrellas were I to do something so crass.”
Her defensive posture relaxed. “They both carry umbrellas? Pessimists?”
“Hardly,” he chuckled. “Pragmatists. They both called London home. Carrying an umbrella made sense and was then handy if you wanted to keep from getting wet…”
“Or bash your great grandson over the head.”
