Like A Woman Scorned

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Scene Title	Like A Woman Scorned
Synopsis	Felix Ivanov is either incredibly smart or incredibly stupid… it's too soon to tell which…
Date	January 27, 2009

The Discount Inn - Room 4

Fel, unfortunately for him, is in one of the rooms at the front of this rather seedy motel. Which means he's got that vintage neon sign blinking through the curtains every night. It doesn't seem to bother him much, however. And the actual sunlight is dying in the west, down the long concrete canyons. He's sitting by the window, having pulled the room's one chair over, leaning his head on the window frame. There's a bottle of very good vodka on the table, a couple of shotglasses there, but he's only a little ways into it. Just resting quietly, and ignoring the copy of 'Heart of Darkness' on the table before him.

The visual neon cacophony of cool cyan and rosy red that paint the outside of Felix's flimsy window shade is abruptly interrupted by the sudden silhouette of someone curvy come to call. For a long moment, there's no knock; no noise of any kind. And then…

tap. tap.

…two muffled knuckles knocked lightly against the window next to Felix's temple instead of a full-fisted at the door.

That has him startling away from it and going for his gun without thinking, in that blur of motion. Only to hesitate. An assassin'd not knock. "Hello?" he calls, quizzically.

Not ordinarily, no. But, then again…

"Mister Dantes?" The voice is feminine; rich, romantic, ever so slightly burdened with a European accent.

Okay, now that's just wrong. He's checked in under his real name. Only a few people know he was Dantes, and one of those is recently dead. So Felix keeps his pistol in hand as he delicately opens the door. "Who is this?"

Staring back at him from the other side is a genuinely gorgeous woman aged indeterminably somewhere between twenty-five and fifty. Bedroom eyes combined with long, lush, dark eye cut a striking contrast with her perfect pale but slightly olive undertoned skin. When he asks her who she is, she replies with the shadow of a smile hung on her lips, "Mercedes."

If this is what his Death looks like, he might possibly become reconciled. Fel's eyes widen. She's seen him before, at least, via the compound eyes of many an insect. The roach in the wall, the spider in the corner. And in many a compromising position, for that matter. But he's not seen her. Despite himself, he laughs a little at that. "I see. What do you want with me?" He's still got the Walther in his hand, a little deadly gleaming thing, and is ignoring it as if it were de rigeur to greet people at the door that way.

For Lucrezia, there is a moment of indescribable intoxication that occurs the first time she lays sight on someone with her own two eyes that she's only previously glimpsed in an eight-fold faceted fashion. And in color now, too. She had no idea that Felix's eyes were blue. Little surprises. They make life worth living. At least for one more day.

She holds a brief conversation of looks between the cop and his handgun before she twitches a brow and quietly queries, "May I come in?" It is cold out there, you know, though that long, black coat with fur collar and cuffs is likely doing more than its fair share to ward off any chill that might nurse any malicious ambitions of climbing up her spine and provoking a shiver.

He motions her in with his free hand, still ignoring the gun, and gently shuts the door behind the both of them. "So. Mercedes," he says, rolling the word over his tongue, amused. "This is obviously very downscale for you. How do you know me?"

"We have a mutual friend," comes Lucrezia's languid reply as she is, at last, permitted entry into the room she already knows by heart. So familiar with it is she, in fact, that when it comes time to slip her suit-clad shoulders free and discard her coat, she is able to effortlessly cast it off in the direction of the dragged chair without so much as a second glance. This summarily robs Felix of his previous seat and forces him to either stand, sit down on the bed, or lean against the slightly unsturdy dresser for whatever conversation there is to be had.

Lucrezia chooses to saunter over to the foot of the bed and linger, still standing, manicured and articulate hands kept free of her tailored pants' pockets for the time being.

"Do we?" he asks, tone still arch and amused, rather than frightened. "And who might that be?" If she says 'Kazimir Volken', it's going to get ugly. He motions her towards that chair, and does not offer the vodka. That's for him. He's only a little flushed from drink as it is, nothing more.

"We do," she says, regarding Felix now through inviting but inexorably cautious eyes. Lucrezia declines any readjustment in posture or location for the moment and remains where she is, going so far as to pointedly allow her gaze to drop from the man's face and race over the tussled linens strewn over the mattress before returning to match blue for brown again. "Teo," she croons sweetly, tilting her chin as if he were standing just next to Felix and she were calling for him to come to her.

Ooh, Teo's been talking. Fel will lecture him later. He doesn't bother to pretend he doesn't know the name. "And you're here on his behalf?" Felix prompts, remaining standing himself. "Mercedes. What is your relationship to him? Merely friends?" He doesn't offer her any of the vodka on the table.

This pointed lack of drink offering is probably going to be looked back on later as a poor choice. Sobriety only makes things sharper and more bitter than they need to be. "In a manner of speaking," she says, expression slowly losing most of its sweetness; snow hardening into ice.

Oh, he knows where this is going. Fel's own expression smoothes over, blank as an expanse of desert. He doesn't prompt her further, merely eyeing her from under his brows, patiently.

Two can play at this game and Lucrezia is arguably pro-ranked when it comes to putting on that silent, soul-devouring sort of stare. Her gaze is practically palpable. Just because she's the first to speak again doesn't mean she's the one who lost the 'battle'. "I would greatly appreciate it if you stopped fucking him." It's astounding just how very casual she makes that request sound. Maybe it's the accent. Everything sounds like it's just on the verge of being some sort of romantic joke with an Italian accent curling around the hard corners of her words.

That has him pulling his glasses off, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. Well. The first official leak. Fel blows out a slow breath. "It's about to come to an end, as it is," he says, tone rather bleak. "What, are you his lover?" It's an equally blunt question. Though he's somewhat sure of the answer - she'd be at him with claws, a garrote, a stiletto. The armory of the Sicilian woman since the Borgia's day.

Well, let's not count that out of this afternoon's agenda just yet, eh? She is wearing stiletto heels, after all, as well as a thin gold chain hung around her neck that disappears down below her plunging neckline. And those fingernails? Beautifully manicured to ten ever so subdued points. Slowly, she sinks down to take a seat on the side of Felix's unmade bed and says in that smoky voice, "Well, that's very heartening to hear." Meanwhile, her fingers are slipping down around her trouser-clad ankles. She's taking off her shoes. Once she's upright again, she adds, "I do love him. Very much. But he has such an awful tendency to make… very dangerous mistakes." She keeps those undeniable bedroom eyes locked on her prey.

Shoes. He looks pointedly at her, at them, then at her again. "Yes, he does," Felix concedes, tone very cool. The blue eyes are wary, and he has not yet set down the Walther he's holding. "For his sake, I should give him up. And I will. I tell you, I bear him no ill will. Quite the contrary. Is that all you came here for?"

Lucrezia draws one freshly bared foot up onto the bed — though, in truth, she's wearing stockings and thus she isn't so much exposed as she is simply shoeless — and hugs it close to her chest with one hand while the other fishes in an interior pocket of her jacket in order to retrieve a silver cigarette case with pearl facing. Apparently, she's also in the mood to smoke. Felix can fondle his gun all he likes; she isn't determined to care unless it's pointed at her. "Of course you don't, Dantes." Tapping out a brown-papered roll from within and placing it between her lips, she then extends the tin across the bed to Felix. No harm in being polite before she lights up unasked. "I know what sort of man you are," she says, sounding sweet instead of making it an accusation.

He doesn't tell her to stop. Nor does he take the offered tin, waving it away with a motion of his free hand. "And what sort of man is that?" he asks, tiredly.

The offer is withdrawn and Lucrezia sees to lighting the clove currently clutched between her luscious lips and she sucks in a long breath of sweetly-scented smoke before exhaling with her reply, "Noble, perhaps too much so for his own good. Ambitious. Intelligent…" She's visually eyeing him up while simultaneously verbally sizing him up.

"You're very kind, but I can't believe you showed up here to shower me with compliments," he says, though there's a thread of humor in his voice. "You have my assurances I won't be Teo's lover much longer. So what else is it you'd have of me?"

"…not very bright, though." Another glorious loll of smoke slithers out from between her softly parted lips and she lowers her knee to the side in order to unbutton her suit jacket and let it fall open to expose the fact that, yeah, she's not really wearing much underneath expect for a lacy camisole. She rises up from the mattress and begins her approach, stalking Felix without menace.

He puts up his free hand, and shakes his head at her, gently. "I'm not arguing that point," he says, drily. And then starts to slowly back towards the door, one pace at a time. "Clearly, you need the room more than I do."

He… what? Lucrezia can't help but look just a little bit confused. She reaches out to ensnare some part of the man's shirt in with the fingers of her free hand and asks, "Where are you going, hm? I've not done with you yet."

His hand catches hers before skin can brush cotton, though there's no brutality in the handclasp. "Away. I don't know what you want, and I don't trust you. So if you won't leave, or state your business, I will," he says, simply.

"I think it's very obvious what I want," Lucrezia replies, voice still lush with lust, or so it seems. She uses the man's grasp on her hand to halt his retreat, planting her stockinged feet on the filthy carpet and drawing the hand he holds back in toward her chest in a sweetheart gesture. Just in case he isn't getting it, though, she clarifies. "Fair play. Teo's had his turn. Now it's mine." Now you're mine, goes the implied statement.

Felix snatches his hand back. "No," he says, simply. "No. Teo was a mistake. And that's not an error I'll repeat." His eyes are roaming, quick glances. "Not to mention - I don't cheat on my lovers. You want a chance when I'm done with him, you can find me. Give me your real name. And we'll see then."

The perceived disdain with which Felix hastily reclaims his hands causes Lucrezia's hot-blooded advances to grow suddenly cold. Few things make a woman feel more repugnant than when a man just can't seem to bear touching her, no matter how oddly inappropriate the interaction might be. It's rejection. This isn't going to go well. Her temper turns icy and her voice is suddenly affected by a chill, even as she sucks in a mouthful of smoke. "You are done with him now," she says, nostrils curling with sweetly-scented just before she turns away from him and stalks back over toward the edge of the bed where she discarded her shoes.

"Soon," Fel amends, tone flat, as he watches her. Not entirely able to help himself. "But not yet," He's still poised for flight or fight, adrenaline drumming in his veins, but he remains still.

Lucrezia emits a contemptuous snort while reseating her shoes. Once those stilettos have been slung back onto her heels, she's quick to be back on her feet again, reclaiming her coat from the chair it was discarded in and storming for the door like a black tempest; some romantic notion of scorn given flesh and form. Her last parting act before leaving nothing but her a hint of perfume and anger in her wake is to flick the remains of her clove cigarette in the direction of the bed and then — BAM!! — she's gone with a lamp-shaking, door-slamming departure.