Beauty in Spring (Beauty #1)(22)
More than Keri should, considering the circumstances. And of course Ivan notices that I’m not playing my role.
His grim look immediately wipes away my smile. Softly I bite my bottom lip, trying to appear as a woman like Keri would appear at this moment, when a psycho stalker is bent on killing her. I don’t really know the details. But I know she loves Ivan, and he’s supposedly leaving her in the protection of these bikers so that he and his security team can hunt down the threat. So I should appear apprehensive—not particularly worried for my own life, because I’ve been assured the psycho won’t find me here—but terrified for Ivan. I should be clinging to him, milking every drop of emotion from these final moments together because I love him so desperately.
The truth is, though…I’m not a very good actor. I don’t think Ivan is, either.
I don’t really know what he is, aside from ruthlessly driven to protect his wife. Which is admirable. Beyond that, however, there’s not much information out there about him.
Not that he doesn’t show up on a Google search. He does. But every article and photo relates to Keri, not Ivan. Before they started dating—and before their marriage—he might as well not have existed. He owns a hotel and casino in Las Vegas, but an online search doesn’t reveal much else. Just that he’s a wealthy businessman.
A businessman I recognized when he showed up at my stepfather’s door five days ago. Nothing Keri Bishop does passes me by, though not by my choice. If she hits the gossip blogs or releases a new movie, half my customers at the diner will mention it at some point during my day. So when she got married, pictures of Ivan and the happy bride were constantly shoved into my face.
I used to amuse myself thinking that Ivan was kind of a lookalike, too, because in all of his photos there’s a strong resemblance to Alexander Skarsg?rd. That resemblance fades away in person. Not that I’ve seen the actor in person. But I don’t really think Ivan looks like Skarsg?rd anymore.
Instead Ivan has started to remind me of my stepfather. Not violent, necessarily—Ivan’s not, as far as I’ve seen. But just that I feel safer when his attention is somewhere else. And I don’t ever want to find out what his reaction might be if I mess this up or if I cross him, because I have a feeling it won’t turn out so well for me.
But I won’t mess this up. I can’t. My stepsister is counting on me to protect her. And I will, just as I always have. No matter the cost.
If everything goes as it should, that cost will only be a million dollars.
And I really need to stop smiling whenever I think about that custody agreement.
A quick glance at Ivan tells me he didn’t notice this time. His focus is directed across the clubhouse, where it sounds as if a herd of buffalo is tromping down the stairs.
I look over my shoulder—carelessly, as a glamorous movie star would, though the small-town waitress I really am burns with curiosity.
Not a herd of buffalo. Just a dozen bikers. They were having a meeting upstairs but apparently that’s over. Earlier I was briefly introduced to a bunch of them, but there are a couple I haven’t met yet heading this way now. One’s a bearded giant who appears mightily amused as he looks me over, which is preferable to the hungry, measuring glances a few of the others gave me before. The second guy is tall, too, though not as massive as his companion. Nor is he as hairy. His angular jaw is clean-shaven, and his dark blond hair is cut short. And he’s not looking at me hungrily, either.
Instead he looks as if he wants a sinkhole to open beneath my feet. His pale green eyes rake the length of my body, his expression set like stone, his mouth thinned into a grim line.
A shiver races over my skin. Instinctively I shift closer to Ivan, which is crazy, because I don’t exactly feel safe with him. But no matter how much disdain Ivan sometimes aims toward me, the bare fact is that he needs me to do this job. He might not like me but I’m necessary. So Ivan doesn’t look at me as if he wishes I didn’t exist—or as if he’ll help me along to a state of not-existing.
The biker’s jaw clenches as my bare arm brushes Ivan’s sleeve. Razor sharp, his green gaze slices over to meet my fake husband’s.
“You’re Tataurov?” His voice is like a glacier, all slow-moving ice and gravel, and another shiver raises goosebumps across my skin. His big hand shoots out to shake Ivan’s. “Duke. I’ll be in charge of looking after your wife.”
He says the last word like he’s chewing a bite of something that he’d rather spit out.
Ivan doesn’t notice or he doesn’t care. Instead he frowns. “Your club’s president is not in charge of her security?”
“He’s in charge of deciding who we watch. I’m in charge of how we watch them.” Duke withdraws his hand, not looking at all bothered that Ivan didn’t take it. “And the prez is a busy man. Whereas me, this is all I do. But if you want someone with a thousand other demands on his time to look after your woman, just say the word and I’ll go see how he feels about spending the next few days babysitting.”
I’ve met the Hellfire Riders’ president, who seemed steely cold and unimpressed by Ivan—which is a far cry from the regimented deference Ivan’s own security shows him, and a far far cry from the fawning obeisance shown by the bevy of stylists and aestheticians who’ve spent the past three days transforming me into Keri Bishop. Indeed, all of these bikers have seemed unimpressed by Ivan, as if they don’t give a single damn about him or his wealth. With me—with Keri—some of their badass attitudes have cracked a little, but still their responses are nothing like the overwhelming reactions I’ve gotten from strangers who mistook me for her before.