"No, no. You greet me this way, ja? You might not feel so warmly toward me later this evening, you know?"
"Oh, I'm not worried about it." Savannah seamlessly brushed off the tattooist's concerns. "It's my pleasure, and also my potential pain, to meet you, Adrian."
Maxim couldn't help but feel slightly impressed by the woman's bravery. Working on the Blood Diamond Task Force was one thing, but there were plenty of men his size and larger who fainted at even the prospect of having their skin pricked by Adrian. Maxim let his hand drop to the small of Savannah's back as Adrian led the way into the backroom. He noted that Savannah didn't shy from his reassuring touch, but that might have just been for the sake of appearances. A place like Paint and Pint was removed from the Russian underworld, but he hadn't been able to guarantee her they wouldn't run afoul of a few of his old cronies here. Savannah had assured him this was a "good thing," and that it meant they were ready to take their cover to its logical next phase.
"Books! Books!" Adrian gestured to a pile of binders stacked on a table in the corner. "Pick one up and start looking! Please. I only have a few preparations to make and then we can get started."
"You choose," Savannah said abruptly as they sat down together.
Maxim raised an eyebrow as he pulled the first binder off the pile. "You sure? Unlike this fake relationship of ours, whatever you decide on tonight is permanent."
"I know what a tattoo is," Savannah muttered. "And I'm aware that I'm going to have to live with it the rest of my life. It's a sacrifice I'm willing to make. Anyway, the research I did stated that the male member of the mafia that the woman is attached to is the one who ultimately decides what she gets. I'm not saying I agree with it, but if we're going to buy into this misogynistic tradition, we might as well do it wholesale in view of everyone else."
Maxim pondered on this as he flipped through the book. It was a smart move on Savannah's part-while the parlor wasn't filled at this relatively late hour in the evening, there were still a few rough-looking men loitering about, reclining on sofas or tables and joking with each other in Russian. Maxim recognized several of them, and he was certain his own observations were mutual; however, no one approached the couple. He noted that just as many eyes drifted to him as they did to the stunning woman he was keeping company with.
"Do you know the meaning of the name Maxim?" he asked her after a long moment's consideration. Savannah shook her head. "It means great. And I want you to wear something that symbolizes that." He flipped the book around, presenting her with the open page, and pointed to a relatively simple design that had caught his attention. "I want you to get a sword."
Savannah didn't take advantage of what was probably an easy joke at his expense; instead, she craned herself forward to study the design, nipping at the knuckle of one finger as she thought. "Where?" she asked finally.
Maxim set the binder aside, letting it fall open at his feet, before rising. Savannah rose also. He glanced across the room, noting that Adrian appeared in the final stages of sterilizing the needle he would be using.
"Turn around," Maxim ordered. Savannah's eyes narrowed, but she complied. As soon as she was looking the other way, Maxim stepped up close behind her and shifted her ombre hair to one side. She was wearing a cream-colored cable knit sweater with a low collar that hung off her dark, slender shoulders. "Can you take this off?" Maxim murmured. After a brief pause, Savannah reached back behind her to pull the sweater over her head. Beneath it, she wore a white camisole-Maxim, and everyone else in the establishment, could clearly see the dark outline of her push-up bra.
It was a revealing glimpse at an already tantalizing woman, but Maxim wanted to push her further. Keeping his expression carefully neutral to anyone who might be watching, as if he had done this a thousand times before and the novelty had long ago worn off, Maxim settled his hands on her waist. "What about something along the side?" he murmured.
"What's the point, then?" Savannah asked, her breath catching slightly in her throat. "I'm not going to infiltrate the Russian mafia wearing a string bikini. We want outside eyes to see it and think we're legit, don't we? So long as it's visible, put it wherever you want."
"You shouldn't say something like that to a man like me," he whispered against her neck as he lowered himself down, palms grazing the outside of one jean-clad thigh. "I might take it the wrong way. What about here?" His light touch deepened into a possessive grab as he took hold of her upper leg.