Hearts in Vegas (Harlequin Superromance) (12 page)

She wasn’t a fan of sitcoms, but her dad often watched them at night if no sports were on. A few years ago, he loved a show that was canceled after just one season. If Dmitri watched that sitcom as well, it could place him in the U.S. at that time.

What was the name of that show?
Something My Dad Thought.
No,
My Dad Says.
Had a cuss word in the title. Now she remembered....

“What a great way to learn slang,” she said, flashing her best sincere smile. “Did you ever watch...” She said the title.

He released an exasperated sigh. “Yes, yes, funny show, but you were talking about our shoestring budget....”

She nodded, pleased she might have something more to go on.

“Right,” she responded, returning to their prior conversation. “My point was people will wonder where Russian Confections got the money to hire a bodyguard. It will draw the wrong kind of attention.”

“Ah, but looks can be deceiving, Frances. If anyone checks public records, they’ll read that Russian Confections is the American arm of a lucrative chocolate factory in the Ukraine that makes dozens of sweet treats, including the Elegance Extra-Dark chocolate bar....” He pressed his fingers to his lips, giving them a small, reverential kiss. “Exquisite, really. I must bring you some.”

She imagined a box of chocolates, realizing how perfectly a coin could fit at the bottom of a paper candy cup. Did he use this Russian Confections company to transport those ancient Greek coins? To where? she wondered.

“So I disagree with your conjecture,” he continued. “Anyway, this bodyguard’s primary job is to escort you after work to your car, which is a
smart
security measure, hardly a suspicious one.” He lifted his chin, affecting a noble silhouette. “Think of yourself,” he said, lowering his voice, “as a lovely damsel in distress I wish to protect.”

What a ham. Probably envisioned himself as a swashbuckler type, swinging in on a rope, a cutlass between his teeth, a hero to the little lady’s rescue.

Maybe by appealing to his blown-up ego, she could convince him to table this bodyguard nonsense. Shame she didn’t know any heroic pirates to compare him to, although Dmitri’s short-clipped hair, pronounced cheekbones and stylish clothes reminded her of another larger-than-life hero.

“Oh, my,” she said, giving him a look, “has anyone ever said you look like James Bond?”

He paused, obviously delighted. “A child did, once, but...” He shrugged off the compliment, but she caught that tell-me-more look in his eyes.

“Oh, it’s
true,
” she cooed. “Both of you are handsome, charming and...well,
far
more intelligent than most people.”

He raised his hand as though he couldn’t handle more adulation. “You flatter me.”

This was like hanging out with a beefy diva.

“And, uh...in shape. Both of you obviously work out.” Time to drive her point home. “Although James Bond would
never
hire a bodyguard for someone.”

He bolted upright. “Why not? An important, intelligent man like that can’t be everywhere at all times.”

“True, but Bond would never hire a bodyguard, especially for an important client.” She frowned, doing her best to look worried. “Let’s get real, Dmitri. What if this bodyguard figures out what we’re planning and reports it to the authorities?”

“He will not do that.”

“How do you know?”

“How do I know
you
won’t deceive me?” he countered, jabbing his index finger at her. “You are obviously an experienced jewel thief who is knowledgeable about Georgian jewelry, but why is there not a
single
news account of one of your thefts? That bothers me!”

He glared at her, a vein in his forehead pulsing. She felt a bit dizzy from the way he’d gone from flattered to outraged within seconds.

On the streets in her teenage years, she’d dealt with her share of bullies who relied on tactics like explosive intimidation to make others grovel. After weathering a few confrontations, she’d learned the secret to managing bullies was not to show fear, even if they were scaring the bejesus out of you.

“There are no accounts of
your
thefts, either,” she said, raising her voice, “but that doesn’t bother me! Means you’re very good at not getting caught, yet you refuse to give me that same respect!”

He lurched to his feet and kicked his chair like a two-year-old, toppling it over onto the rug with a soft thump. Flailing his arms, he barked something in Russian to Oleg, who jumped up and righted the chair.

With every spare ounce of steely nerve she could muster, she stared into Dmitri’s blue eyes, which were frosty with rage. He tapped his index finger on the table, steady as a metronome, slicing out the seconds, one...by...one.

Then he stopped.

He hung his head for what seemed an eternity, during which time she mentally calculated the number of steps to her purse and how long it’d take to snatch her cell phone and punch the speed dial for help....

Then her stomach plummeted as she realized the bogus office didn’t exist. Not yet, anyway.

Finally, he raised his head.

“Ah, Frances...” He drew in a colossal breath, releasing it with a heavy sigh. “How silly for us to fight.” He thumped his fist over his heart. “I can be obstinate, I know.
Gordynya khorosho, chtoby ne dovodit.
”

Oleg, standing nearby, nodded somberly.

“Pride goes before good arguments,” Dmitri interpreted for her, “or how you Americans say...pride goes before a fall. You and I, Frances, have much to gain in our business venture, so I will be less prideful because I want us to be friends. Truce?”

She could feel the tension seep from her body. Not that she could ever completely relax in these offices, but a truce would make this undercover job less uncomfortable.

“Truce,” she said.

Rain began splattering against the window. Dmitri nodded to the younger Russian, who sat back down and resumed typing.

“You see,” Dmitri said to Frances, “Oleg’s research showed you had one felony arrest five years ago, here in Las Vegas, for which you did not serve time. Please don’t take this the wrong way, my Frances, but no time for a felony sounds...
questionable.
As in acting as an informant...or testifying against a former associate.”

Dmitri was paranoid, like most criminals. If something looked suspicious, he thought the worst. Of course, he was right on this one. If all went well, she
would
be testifying against him.

But she also knew that online criminal history Oleg pulled was relatively useless. In her work at Vanderbilt, she’d run hundreds of online criminal histories, which should be called criminal
sketches,
as they offered such sparse information. All Oleg could have learned from her criminal history was the date, city and felony charge. Clever of him, though, to run a separate check of Nevada prison records.

“It was my first offense,” she explained, “and since I was young, the judge was lenient. Gave me probation and community service.”

Nowhere, not even in court records, would it show the suspended sentence, her real court deal. Nor would any records, public or otherwise, reveal her true work history at Vanderbilt.

“I give you respect for avoiding prison,” Dmitri said with a reverential nod. “Now...it is time for Oleg to take you to his office, where he will show you blueprints of the Palazzo, but before you go...” He reached inside his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. “For putting up with my, pardon my Americanism,
bullshit.
” He peeled off four crisp one-hundred-dollar bills and handed them to her. “Do something nice for yourself. I insist.”

She didn’t want his guilt money, had half a mind to say as much, but she’d met her badass-girl quota for the day. Maybe the year. Plus she knew where bad money could do some good.

“Thank you.” She slipped the bills into her pocket.

As she exited with Oleg, she reflected on how different she felt than when she’d first stepped into this room. Before, she’d been anxious entering Dmitri’s inner sanctum. Now she felt as if she’d claimed a piece of its turf.

Which almost scared her more.

* * *

S
HRUGGING
OFF
HIS
trench coat, Braxton paused. He’d just walked into Dima’s office, had barely handed him the manila envelope containing his investigation report on the check-cashing store, when the Russian asked him to be a...

“Did you say...
spy?
” he asked.

“Yes,” Dima answered.

“I’m not sure if I should laugh or call the American consulate,” Braxton joked, looking around the room for a place to hang his coat.

“What is so funny about that?”

From the Russian’s dark glower, it was about as funny as a hangnail.

Braxton shifted his coat from one hand to the other, debating if he should just put it back on and leave. But he wanted that head-of-security job,
bad,
so he’d answer the question.

“It’s just that you’re a Russian, I’m an American, and the spy question struck me as humorous...like we were in some James Bond movie.”

After a few seconds—five to be exact, because Braxton ticked them off in his head—Dima smiled.

“That name came up earlier,” he murmured, tossing the envelope onto the oval table as he strolled to the window, where he eyed his reflection in the glass. “I’ve been told I look like him....” He waggled a hand over his shoulder. “Coat hooks are next to the door.”

Braxton headed over to them, mentally congratulating himself on that spur-of-the-moment movie reference.

“Have you seen many Bond films?” Dmitri asked.

“Not since I was a kid.”

Hanging up his coat, he recalled a long-ago summer when he and Drake had watched and re-watched Bond movies until they could quote entire scenes in their sleep. Their mother hadn’t been happy with their 007 obsession, fretting it was a sign they were overly enthralled with their father’s security profession. She was right, of course; they
were
fascinated with their dad’s career, and if there’d been hotel-casino-security-cop movies, they’d have watched those, too.

James Bond had looked cool in his tuxedo, but nine-year-old Braxton thought his dad looked even cooler in his security uniform—creased blue pants and shirt, gold badge, but best of all a leather holster with a real gun. Sometimes he’d help his dad polish his leather shoes, after which he’d put them on and try to walk, the two of them laughing as he clomped and slid, barely able to take a step.

Until this moment, he hadn’t realized that this security position was a way to be close to his old man again. Stepping into his dad’s career was like stepping into those shoes.

Maybe this time he could finally fill them.

“For all those gadgets Bond used,” Dima said, pulling Braxton out of his reverie, “he had deplorable taste in weapons before he started carrying a Walther.”

“Yeah, that Beretta belonged in a lady’s purse.”

With a spirited laugh, Dima turned to the table. “You are funny, my friend! Ah, remember when Bond escaped in a helicopter from a disintegrating plane?”

“Die Another Day,”
Braxton answered, naming the film. He and Drake must have jumped off the roof a dozen times that summer, reenacting that very scene.

“Ah, if only such escapes were possible in real life, yes?”

The distant growl of another flight drew his attention. Through the window, Braxton watched a commercial plane lumber toward the clouds.

Dima pulled out a chair and gestured for him to sit. “What have you discovered about Yuri?”

Braxton had little to report. Yuri’s businesses were closed down or had been taken over by others. His former boss was out on bail but keeping a low profile before the trial. “I’ll email you my surveillance reports.”

“I am more interested in your impressions.”

“Yuri is wearing an ankle bracelet, and from my brief surveillances he’s staying home, which is exactly where most people think he belongs.”

“He will not cause interference for me?”

Braxton gave a who-knows shrug. “Apparently, most of his former pals have turned against him, and he has almost no support in the Russian community. But that could just be the story he wants people to believe. Plus you and I know those ankle monitoring bracelets are a joke—with the right electronics expert giving you a hand, they can be taken on and off at whim.”

“So I should stay alert.”

“Yes.”

“In Russia, patience is a virtue, so I shall remain patient and see what else you learn about Yuri.” He straightened. “Ready to discuss a new job?”

“Absolutely,” Braxton said, crossing the floor. “I have some ideas about this security position I think you’ll like.”

“By the way, I’ve decided the title will be Security Director,” Dima said, “which sounds more prestigious than Head of Security, don’t you agree? Shakespeare may have questioned ‘What’s in a name?’ to which I answer
everything.
But unfortunately we’re not discussing that job until my overpaid lawyers finish hammering out the business details.”

Classical music began playing.

“Ringtone,” Dima explained, reaching into his pocket. “Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto in D Major. Excuse me—I’ve been expecting an important call.”

As he spoke in Russian, Braxton crossed to the window. Rain pelted the glass. In the distance, lightning zigzagged. He looked down at his Volvo in the parking lot, hoped that weather stripping he’d put in the door seal would stop it from leaking again.

Parked near the Volvo was Babe’s lemon-yellow Benz.

He’d noticed it the moment he’d pulled into the lot this morning, which wasn’t difficult, as only twenty or so cars were parked in the large lot. Being early for his meeting, he’d sat in his car, contemplating her Benz. He also took interest in two shiny black Lexus models and a limo parked in a cluster nearby. Russians had a thing for black luxury cars, so he guessed they belonged to others in Dmitri’s organization.

He’d already run her license plate, hoping to learn her real name, instead learning it had been rented a week ago from a car-rental agency downtown. For the hell of it, he ran the licenses on each Lexus and learned both were registered to a corporation named Konfety. Ran the limo’s license. Konfety, again.