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I scowled. I don’t like mysteries. I have enough to deal with, keeping everything running smoothly. And building, every day building, growing my empire a street at a time.
And meanwhile the FBI were always sniffing around, trying to find something they could use to bring me down. The woman they had running things, Carrie Blake, was like a dog with a bone. She made a point of coming on busts, just so she could glare at me as I watched one of my guys led away in cuffs. She was a straight arrow, impossible to bribe, which I had to grudgingly respect. She was good looking, too, in an elegant, older woman way, with silver hair that made me think of beryozka trees. I’d actually run into her at a party, once, by pure chance. She had her hair pinned up and was in a deep red evening gown. When we saw each other, she almost dropped her martini and I almost crushed my whiskey glass. But both of us rallied quickly.
She’d glared at me. Mr. Gulyev. And I thought this was a civilized party.
No, Ms. Blake. Apparently, they let just about anyone in.
The woman was a thorn in my side. I knew she had people watching me. I never saw them, but I could feel them, sometimes, like when I’d met that property developer at the construction site.
The only good news was that Christina was back. I’d sleep well tonight.
Christina. I licked my lips. She’d tasted different. Innocent in a way that didn’t fit Christina at all. She almost reminded me of that woman in my hotel room, Hailey. Christina had always been eager and confident in bed, but ultimately she was... glossy. Like those magazines American women read, with the perfectly edited model on the front, alluring but somehow fake.
This new Christina was clumsy, tentative... almost shy. But she was real and that turned me on like nothing else. I’d only intended to kiss her, not go at her up against the banister like a couple of teenagers. But the accident had changed her, somehow... and I loved it.
I thought of the way she’d responded to me, her tongue urgent, almost desperate against mine, her walls satiny tight and slick, clutching at my fingers as I’d explored her. Even now, my cock was rock hard in my pants.
I’d find out what was happening with Ralavich. And then, tonight, I had to fuck her.
16
Hailey
I WAS SO BUSY thinking about Grigory watching me, I’d reached the landing at the top of the stairs before I realized I had no idea where I was going. I don’t know where our bedroom is!
I risked a glance over my shoulder. Grigory was still glaring up at me. He actually took a step towards the stairs as if he was going to follow, but then one of the other guards asked him a question and he cursed and turned to the man to answer him. While he was distracted, I raced up the remaining stairs and went right, picking a direction at random. I just wanted to get out of his sight and find our room before anyone—
“Well, that seemed to go okay.”
The voice came out of nowhere and it was so sudden I literally jumped, then flattened myself into an alcove, eyes everywhere, trying to find the source.
And then it sunk in that the voice was familiar. Calahan, in my earpiece. I slumped in relief. Then, as I replayed what he’d said in my mind, my face went hot.
He’d been listening to everything.
I swallowed. The kissing at the airport, what had just happened downstairs...hearing wasn’t the same as seeing, but...I remembered the moan I’d made, when Konstantin slid his fingers into me, and flushed harder. Had Calahan sounded jealous? Or was that just my imagination? “Yeah,” I muttered at last. “Now I have to find our room. Any ideas?”
“Sorry,” said Calahan. “We know zip about the inside of the mansion. You’re going to have to do some exploring.”
I started along the landing. The mansion was huge, but most of the doors I opened led to unused bedrooms, some completely empty and some with beds covered in dust sheets. The rooms were amazing: the ceilings were so high I had to squint to see all the intricate plasterwork and the chandeliers were iron octopuses the size of small cars, draped in glittering glass. You could have opened the place as a hotel for at least fifty guests. But it looked like Konstantin never had anyone to stay.
As I walked, I thought about the name I’d heard downstairs, the one that had enraged Konstantin. “Ralavich,” I said to Calahan. “You don’t think he means Dmitri Ralavich?”
Two years ago, in Alaska, my friend Kate had almost died when she’d come up against a Russian mob boss by that name. A truly evil man, notorious for trafficking women.
