Chapter Seven: Mind Games
"Well, Mr. Vaughn," Irina said once they were both seated in her office down the hall. "I just thought we should chat. We really haven't had that many opportunities to speak alone."
She watched the expression on his face carefully for his reaction. Mr. Vaughn was a competent actor, she supposed, or would have been, if not for his eyes. One look in those beautiful green globes told her exactly what he was thinking.
"No," he said, his expression remaining impassive, for once. "We certainly haven't."
"You've been awfully busy getting acquainted with my daughter," Irina said, a cold smile playing about her lips. And she watched his eyes, watched the flash of anger and surprise they betrayed before turning blank. Yes, his eyes were definitely a weakness, one of many she detected in Mr. Vaughn. That was fine-- she could accept weaknesses as far as he was concerned. They would only make him that much easier to control.
She still didn't completely trust Michael Vaughn, or Sydney, for that matter. That was fine, too. If they caused problems, they could be dealt with. The two of them were hardly indispensable.
"I-- um--" Michael said, in a voice that struggled not to display emotion. "I was acquainted with your daughter before."
"But not like you are now, were you?"
It was amusing to watch his face as it contorted, searching for an acceptable response to her question. "We haven't had to hide our feelings since we came here," he said finally. "So, yes, I suppose we've become better acquainted."
Irina rose from her chair and began to circle the desk-- rather, circle him-- slowly, deliberately. "I understand my daughter did quite a service to you, Mr. Vaughn." Now she paused beside him, gazing imperiously down at him as he struggled for words.
"I'm not sure what you mean, Ms. Derevko."
Irina smirked. It was actually kind of sweet, the way he was trying so hard to be polite. If she wasn't going to call him by his first name, he wasn't going to call her by hers. She wondered what his reaction would be if she said, You know, you're practically married to my daughter. Why don't you just call me Mom? It would almost be worth saying it, just to see his reaction. But no, now was not the time for that.
"Well, I heard that when she found you after your-- incident-- with the CIA--" Ha. He flinched. Didn't even try to hide it. "--she practically had to scrape your drunken, unshaven self off of your living room floor."
"She said that?" The poor man looked absolutely mortified. He really was too easy to play with. This was almost cruel.
"No, of course she didn't say that," Irina said, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Of course he grew tense under her touch. So fucking predictable. "She was terribly worried about you, though."
Michael ran a hand back through his light brown hair. There was no pretense of trying to hide his emotions now. "Well, I'm very sorry for worrying her."
"Yes, I'm sure you are." Now. Just the right mixture of concern on her face as she perched on the desk in front of him. "I just wonder, though."
Michael looked up at her, not bothering to conceal the curiosity on his face. "Wonder about what?"
Now Irina rose from the desk, circling back to her own chair, pausing deliberately beside it. "Oh, I don't know." She collapsed into the chair as if she was, in fact, carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. "I just worry that she left the CIA for the wrong reasons. I'm thrilled to have her working for me, of course," she added hastily, sensing his skepticism. "But I know she would be doing no such thing if it wasn't for--" She let the rest of her sentence trail off deliberately. They both knew how she would have ended it: If it wasn't for you, Michael Vaughn.
To his credit, Michael only sat there looking stunned and guilty for, oh, about thirty seconds. "The-- the CIA wasn't helping her achieve her goals anymore," he said, and Irina smiled. It sounded like he wanted to convince himself as badly as he wanted to convince her.
"Of course it wasn't," Irina said, loading her voice with just the right amount of patronization. "And it wasn't allowing you to achieve them with her."
Michael didn't say anything, only sat there, thin-lipped, white-faced.
"Yes, I would say that you owe my daughter quite a debt of gratitude," Irina said, nodding as if she had considered the situation very carefully. "And I owe one to you, Mr. Vaughn."
Michael looked at her, his eyes a silent question: Why?
"You see, my plans always included having my daughter with me. When I built this empire, I always had her in mind. An heir to the throne, if you will." She rose from her chair again, but this time, she didn't start for him. She started for the door. "And now it looks as if you'll sit there with her. So you see, it worked out very nicely for all of us."
And she left him there, looking as if he was ready to be sick. Irina would have almost felt sorry for him. Except she had always found weakness to be so much more worthy of ridicule than pity.
She wondered if Sydney had ever had any trouble getting him into bed. Because it had just been so deliciously easy to mindfuck him.
