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Finally, Donatella focused on Rapp, the man responsible for bringing them together. He’d never understood that they were made for each another. Instead, he’d left and taken up with that idealistic little reporter Anna Reilly. While she could understand what attracted him to Claudia Gould, what he’d seen in that Goody Two-shoes was a mystery.
Donatella turned to gaze out over the city lights but kept Rapp in her peripheral vision. What if something were to happen to the little French girl? Would getting rid of the competition create an opportunity for them to rekindle the romance that had been so powerful in their youth?
She took a sip of her water and finally looked fully away from her former lover. No. He’d find out and then she’d experience what so many had experienced before—the very brief and very final view down the barrel of his Glock.
The chime of a phone sounded and Claudia picked up, speaking a few unintelligible words into it before disconnecting.
“The prince has left his brother’s compound and is driving in the direction of Terry’s.”
* * *
Azarov looked between the front seats as Rapp eased into the crowded parking lot of Monaco’s most exclusive club. The former CIA man was wearing an inexpensive suit and had pulled his hair back into a neat ponytail. Combined with his general build and constantly sweeping eyes, he looked much like all the other bodyguards shuttling their employers to Terry’s. Of course, those similarities were an illusion. He was unique. And, as such, utterly fascinating.
Azarov had done very little in his life beyond training. His athletic talent had been identified at a young age and he’d been taken from his home in favor of a Soviet biathlon camp. Later he’d joined the Russian special forces, where he’d learned and applied an entirely new skill set. Finally, he’d gone to work directly for President Krupin, continuing to hone his abilities with some of the most accomplished coaches in the world.
Rapp had enjoyed few of those advantages—lacrosse and track in his early years, then a relatively short involvement in triathlon. No, he was a far rarer animal. A pure talent. How Azarov had been bested twice by the American despite his haphazard training history, age, and almost comically thick medical file was difficult to fully understand. What he did understand, though, was that Rapp could be as good a friend as he was deadly an enemy.
It was this realization that had torn him from Cara and the life they had made together. An opportunity to observe Rapp up close and the excitement that he missed more than expected were just ancillary benefits. The American was someone who could be trusted to stand with those who showed him loyalty, and there could be no better ally than the one man better at this game than himself.
“Can you see, Grisha?” Rapp said, veering away from the valets and finding a space that allowed a view of the people entering Terry’s.
“Yes, but I don’t know any of those men.”
Rapp spoke into a phone patched through the BMW M5’s audio system. “Claudia, do you have an ETA on the prince?”
“A little less than two minutes if he makes the lights.”
“Kent. Give me a sitrep.”
“I’m setting up now. Thirty seconds and I’ll be ready to rock.”
“For God’s sake,” Donatella said in a typically exasperated tone. “None of this is necessary. I can just walk in there right now and in a few minutes bin Musaid and I will be on our way to my hotel suite. Instead, we’re sitting here waiting for someone who can get Grisha in. I’ve done this a thousand times, Mitch. And guess what? I somehow managed without you.”
Azarov glanced over at the woman in the backseat with him. She was unquestionably one of the most alluring creatures he’d ever seen. But that came a
t a price. Her magnetism wasn’t produced just by her beauty—there were many equally stunning women. It was the sense of danger she exuded. The sharp edge that became a bit more ragged with every passing day. There was little doubt that at one time she and Rapp had been involved, and it was even more obvious that she would like to see that relationship rekindled.
The fact that Rapp was so tightly tied to Claudia was unnerving the woman more than she was willing to admit. Donatella was at an age where her irresistible power over men would soon begin to fade—a painful realization that would be magnified by the way Rapp looked at the younger Claudia Gould.
Would those issues translate into recklessness? Could she be trusted in a fight? Interesting questions, but not ones worth asking at this point. While he wasn’t in the habit of relying on other men’s judgment, he made an exception for Rapp. If the American felt she deserved a place on this team, it was likely that she did.
Kent Black’s voice came over the phone again. “I’m set up and have eyes on the prince’s vehicle. Give me a second and I should be able to get a head count.”
* * *
Donatella Rahn only half listened to the ensuing discussion, instead watching two girls walk across the parking lot toward the door. Both were in their early twenties, thin, tall, and expensively dressed. The one on the left, while wearing this year’s Chanel, didn’t seem comfortable in it. The other was even worse, looking dangerously unsteady in ancient Jimmy Choos.
Fresh off an Eastern European farm, she suspected. Looking to use the gifts nature had provided to build a better life. They entered without challenge but ultimately would be of little interest to anyone outside of the bedroom. And even then, she suspected their talents leaned more toward slopping pigs.
“Okay,” Black said over the speakers. “We’ve got two men in front and one in the back. They’re about to take the left into the club’s entrance.”
“Roger that,” Rapp said.
They watched bin Musaid’s car pull in front of the club as a valet rushed to open the back door. The prince stepped out, not exactly keeping a low profile in his red-checked headdress. The attendants were obviously familiar with his habits and none made a move to park the car. Instead, the bodyguards pulled into a space close to the door.
“Did you get a good look at him, Donatella?”
“He’s hard to miss.”
