by K. A. Tucker
The surveillance reports never mentioned him being a nice guy.
My thoughts are distracted by the scent of deep-fried food as we round the corner. A strip of colorful sheds extends out in front of us, each one covered in menu boards.
“Have you ever eaten here?” Another downward glance tells me he believes what I’ve led him to believe so far—that I’m too good to patronize a garden shack turned burrito buffet.
“No, can’t say I have.” The truth is, I’ve been to these Portland food carts three times already, mainly because he comes here for lunch almost every day. More of my failed attempts to grab his attention. Once, I had my camera out and trained on him, waiting for him to look up, to notice me so I’d have an excuse to apologize and assure him that it was just for my latest photography class project—capturing candids of attractive men. Another time, I even sat at the table next to him. But his attention was on his sandwich and his phone screen. He didn’t notice me.
Luke juts his chin toward a burgundy cart with a black wrought-iron sign. “They make really good meatball sandwiches.”
“No they don’t,” I throw out before I can stop myself.
Luke’s brow spikes.
“No one makes better meatball sandwiches than a born-and-bred Italian. That guy in there, with his Carrot-Top orange hair and freckles, is not Italian. So, by default, the sandwiches must be terrible.”
An amused smirk settles on his face. “That’s a little prejudicial, don’t you think?”
“Maybe.”
His eyes drift to my mouth, which I’ve painted with bright red lipstick today. “Let me guess . . .”
“Yes, I’m one of those snobby Italians when it comes to cooking, I’ll own that.”
“Well, it’s the best meatball sandwich I’ve ever had, but I guess I don’t know any better, do I?”
“You do, now that I’ve told you.” I catch the amused twinkle in his eye and I jump for my chance. “Tell you what . . . I’ll try this spectacular sandwich of yours, and then I’ll make you a real one, and you can tell me that you’re wrong and I’m right. Deal?” I hold my breath, waiting for him to respond to what some might consider the offer of a date. If he blows me off now, it will be as much of a “thanks, but I’m not interested” as I’ve ever seen. And I can’t tell which way he’ll swing. He’s harder to read than most. The degenerates I usually deal with wear their intentions like aprons, eyeballing my body, taking any chance to touch me that they can. But Luke isn’t a degenerate. At least, not like any I’ve dealt with before—a twenty-four-year-old guy with perfect nails and a gold Rolex watch and tailored pants, who works behind a desk at a car garage and eats lunches prepared at food carts.
Without a word, he strolls up to the counter, sliding his wallet from his back pocket. Despite all that he is and why I’m here, my eyes can’t help lingering on that pleasing view for just a moment, before I force my gaze up.
I mentally pat myself on the back as my self-confidence begins to creep back in. I have his attention and now I’m playing him like he’s my own personal marionette. This is what I’m good at.
“I hope you’re good with Diet Coke,” Luke offers, handing me the foil-wrapped sandwich and my drink.
I hate diet soda. “It’ll work. Thanks.”
He leads me toward two bar stools at a round-top table. After many failed attempts at garnering his attention, I feel like I’ve just taken a shot of adrenaline, the thrill of a small victory coursing through my veins.
“Well?” He gestures toward my lunch.
“Don’t be offended if I gag,” I mutter truthfully, unfolding the wrapper to reveal a mess that I’m liable to slop on this blouse—a blouse that cost more than I’d spend on an entire outfit. The FBI has paid an exorbitant amount of money to make my socialite cover authentic. Right down to the caffè lattes I drink while strolling through the flower markets as I embrace this role. The guys on my crime squad would be pulling aneurisms if they did the math. But that’s the FBI for you. Even the embedded listening device in my pendant is custom-designed for this case, the feed bouncing off satellites to reach Warner and my other cover guys. Technology that very few get to tap into. Certainly not an ordinary city cop.
Luke watches me take a bite. While I’ll silently admit it’s not half-bad—though there’s too much salt in the sauce and the meat is a tad dry—I can’t give him any excuse to back out of our “date.” So I place the sandwich back into its wrapper.
“Don’t like it?”
“Were you born without taste buds? Or is it a condition you’ve come down with?” I tease.
He gives me a lopsided grin; he doesn’t seem to care one way or another whether I’m satisfied. I wonder if he’s the same with the girls he brings home. And then I push that thought aside, feeling my cheeks heat a little.
I take my time washing the taste out of my mouth with my soda while he starts inhaling his own lunch. The guy must have one heck of an appetite, for the time he spends working out. He always does his grocery shopping on Sunday nights, and that consists of one bag that I watch him unpack through binoculars. He usually eats out or brings home take-out. On the rare occasion that I’ve seen him in his kitchen, it’s been to heat up the contents of a can of Chef Boyardee. A typical twenty-four-year-old bachelor.
My appraisal of him is distracted when he waves to someone behind me. I glance over my shoulder and spot a man in a suit shuffling by, and I’m immediately on edge. It’s a natural instinct to assume everyone your target knows is also a criminal and you may be about to witness something illegal.
“Hey, Willie,” Luke calls out, wrapping up the other half of his sandwich and thrusting it out.
With a slight frown, I really look at the man—at his gray and wiry beard, at his tattered and stained brown suit, at the ’80s-style briefcase clutched tightly within his grip; its seems cracked, the handle broken off.
“Mr. Boone,” the man named Willie answers as he accepts the meal with a nod of appreciation, smiling just enough to reveal several missing teeth. “Nice spring day today, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Luke agrees. “Looking forward to summer.”
Muted, sad eyes turn to me. “You take care of him, pretty lady. He’s a good man.”
I don’t even have a chance to answer before he hobbles away. When I look questioningly at Luke, he shrugs, mildly embarrassed. “He comes around on Tuesdays. I usually buy two lunches and give him one.” After a pause, he adds, “Reminds me of my grandpa.” With a swift movement, he steals the intact sandwich—minus one small bite—sitting in front of me, and begins eating it as if he planned on doing it all along.
My chest swells, just a tiny bit. I shouldn’t be surprised by this at all. Even the shadiest of criminals have an ounce of good in them. A soft spot. Luke Boone’s soft spot is obviously his grandfather. I make a mental note to get as much information as I can on the man, so I can exploit it.
But I also can’t help but look at my sandwich and note that today is Tuesday. I wonder if Luke Boone’s the one pulling the marionette strings around here.
■ ■ ■
My car is rolling backward out of the bay door as we approach the garage. A short, stocky mechanic in coveralls yells, “Just like you said, Boone. Small adjustment to the clutch.”
“Thanks, Tabbs.” To me, he turns and smiles. “See? Told ya.”
“Yes, you did.” What Luke hasn’t told me is whether I’m going to see him again. I trail him into the office. A grouchy Steve Miller sits behind the desk, hammering his meaty fist against a blue stapler. He makes a point of glaring at the clock on the wall. “Didn’t think you were coming back.”
“I knew you’d miss me too much if I didn’t,” Luke retorts, stepping around the desk. “You gonna move so I can draw up the invoice?”
“No need. I have it ready here.” His tone abruptly switches to something li
ght and airy. “Miss, I pulled most of your information from your ownership papers. If you can just give me your phone number, I’ll get this all finished for you in a jiffy.”
I recite my new cell phone number and in less than a minute, Miller holds up a printout and thrusts it toward Luke, all pretenses of a man who would use the word “jiffy” gone.
These two don’t like each other; that much is obvious. Which means Miller may be a source of information for us down the line. I’ll have to flag that to Warner. Until then . . . I fish my credit card out of my wallet and hand it to Luke.
He smirks. “Don’t you want to see how much you’re being charged first?”
Smooth, Clara. “Of course.” I give the invoice the obligatory scan, not really seeing anything, not caring what he’s charging me because the Feds are paying. “It’s reasonable. Thank you.”
My card is processed, and then it’s time to leave.
“Let us know if you have any more problems.” Luke flashes that wide, charming smile that stalls my feet just a little.
Still no mention of connecting again. In fact, I’d say Luke has gone out of his way to skirt the subject. He’s just not interested. That’s all there is to it. Or maybe he’s waiting for me to bring it up again. But if he’s not, then bringing it up will make me look desperate. I’m guessing he doesn’t like desperate women.
Luke Boone has me in a tailspin. No target has ever had me second-guessing myself this much, this early. It’s just the pressure of the case, I remind myself. “I’m sure I will.” I take long, slow steps, ensuring my movements are sleek and appealing, the opposite of my frantic thoughts, and I desperately search for another hook, since nothing I’m casting has caught so far.
“So, when did you say you’re cooking dinner for me?”
I fight the urge to groan with relief but I can’t keep the smile from exploding across my face. “Whenever you call me.” I turn to regard him, to see his smug face—like he knew I was waiting for it all along, like he was toying with me—and nod to the sheet on his desk. “You have my number.”
“I do.” His eyes twinkle. “I’ll call you soon.”
Thank fucking God.
I wait until I’m in my car and around the corner before turning off my wire and squealing like a fourteen-year-old who just got asked out to the movies. I dial Warner to debrief, my heart still racing. It’s standard protocol to call in after every meeting with my target. Up until now, I’ve had nothing but failure to report. And, while this may not seem like much . . .
I think I’m finally in.
Chapter 5
■ ■ ■
LUKE
“Screwing the customers . . .” Miller grumbles, pushing the filing cabinet shut with a loud metal bang.
“Only the pretty ones.” And she is that. It wasn’t until she lifted her sunglasses that she had my undivided attention. Those big, blue eyes up against an olive complexion are striking. I wouldn’t have guessed Italian. Mediterranean, definitely.
Exotic, dark-haired, killer body—my type exactly.
“You’re going to lose business for the garage.”
“Relax. I wasn’t the one fishing.” And there was definite fishing on her part. For a long while there, I wasn’t sure I wanted to take the bait. Everything about her—her upscale style, her expensive car, her cool demeanor—says she’s my kind of girl, and therein lies the problem. My kind of girl is good for one thing, and it’s not having lunch over at the food carts of Portland. Or conversation, in general.
Give those kinds of girls more and suddenly they become work, and money. Endless streams on both accounts. Rust warned me about them years ago. Thank God I haven’t tumbled into any of their traps. Even Priscilla, my fallback lay, who I consider a friend, who knows exactly where we stand in terms of our “relationship” and that I don’t have the kind of money she wants—even she will occasionally try her hand at sucking more out of me. A new bracelet, cash for rent, a tank of gas for the BMW that her last sugar daddy handed her . . .
But Rain was cute today, in a feisty way, humoring me by taking a bite of that sandwich that she was so obviously not going to enjoy. Her nose crinkling up at the sight of it. Her witty little insult. The way she hung back, waiting, hoping for a chance to see me again but not willing to come right out and ask after already being so forward earlier. Girls like Priscilla would have kept pushing. But Rain obviously has some self-respect.
And when she started walking out of the office, I couldn’t help myself.
I punch her number into my phone so I can call her after work. If I’m lucky, I’ll also have her naked and tangled in my sheets later tonight.
Rust’s number flashes across the screen and my stomach tightens. I hope he hasn’t had a change of heart about me going behind his back to his auctioneer. If so, I’m about to get my ass handed to me with Miller listening.
“Yeah?”
“You busy?” No anger in Rust’s tone.
I glance at the stack of paperwork. “Not really.” Miller can do that shit. He likes it.
“Good. Tell Miller you’re taking off for the rest of the day. Meet me at Corleone’s.”
“Corleone’s?” My brow spikes. Arguably the nicest restaurant in Portland. A place you don’t walk into without a suit and plenty of room on your credit card.
“Yes . . . I think it’s time you start meeting some of the people I do real business with.”
“Is it . . .”
“Just get over here.” I hear the smile in his voice.
Finally . . . I bolt out of the office with a grin, stepping over Rain’s invoice, which has slipped through my fingertips and now lies on the dirty office floor.
■ ■ ■
If the violin music is supposed to be relaxing . . . it’s not. Or maybe it’s the pompous company that has me feeling tense.
“Rust speaks highly of you,” Andrei says, the glass of brandy resting against his bottom lip, his shrewd gaze scrutinizing me. His harsh accent, his steely demeanor, his cold blue eyes somehow scalding—everything about him—reminds me of Rust’s old partner, Viktor Petrova, a successful businessman and by all rights a murderer.
I don’t remember Viktor having tattoos on his neck, though. This guy does. A hint of ink stretches out past the collar of his crisp white dress shirt.
I keep my smile muted to match his. “I’m the son he always wanted.”
That earns a smirk from him and a chuckle from Rust—because we both know that the last thing Rust has ever wanted is a wife and kids. He’s been “dating” the same blond—Ashleigh—for two years now, keeping her around with just enough diamonds and designer gifts in exchange for the occasional home-cooked meal and blow job without any of the commitment. The kind of relationship I should strive for if I want to avoid grief, according to him.
“It’s been a while since my last trip to America,” Andrei notes, watching the female server set our plates down in front of us. “Service here is as atrocious as usual.”
Her hands freeze for just a moment. The beginnings of an apology appear ready to leave her lips when he waves her away with a sneer of disgust.
I catch Rust’s eyes. They’re unreadable, as always. I can’t tell if sitting at this table with this asshole is as uncomfortable for him as it is for me. The service is fine. In fact, it’s probably the best damn service I’ve ever had.
“It will be nice to get home,” Andrei adds.
I bite my tongue a second before I ask what brought him here. It’s an innocent question—a way to keep the conversation going and distract from the awkwardness I feel—but I know that you don’t ask these men any questions. In fact, Rust warned me before we walked into this restaurant that less is more. And not to say anything stupid.
Rust has never needed to come right out and name his Russian mafia ties for me to know that’s exactly who his �
��business associates” are. They’re the same type that his father—my grandfather—kept. I’ve been around these kinds of people all my life. I can’t remember exactly when I figured it out but once I did, I’ve always been equal parts respectful, in awe, and wary of them. There’s never been any reason for me to be outright afraid. My grandpa dealt with them, right up until he died of cancer ten years ago. Rust deals with them. While they can be sons of bitches, I’ve never seen the kind of stuff that the movies make you think when you hear “mafia.”
Well, I guess that’s not entirely true. But what happened to my friend Jesse’s girl wasn’t business-related.
“Speaking of sons . . .” Andrei’s attention floats to someone behind me.
From my peripherals, a stout guy in a tailored black suit appears and takes the empty seat at our table, muttering a few words in Russian to his father.
Rust leans over and offers his hand, smiling broadly. That’s the thing with Uncle Rust; he’s a genuinely happy guy unless someone really pisses him off. He always makes people feel welcome. Since he’s usually surrounded by dour faces—including these two, right now—people naturally gravitate toward him. “Good to see you, Vlad. This is my nephew, Luke. He’ll start managing some things for me soon.”
I don’t know what “things” he’s referring to but I simply nod and stick my hand out. Vlad accepts it and I see that his knuckles are marked by tattoos. More tattoos disappear beneath his cuff and creep out from his shirt collar. I’m guessing the one on his neck matches his father’s. A branding, of some sort. From what I’ve read, all of their markings mean something significant.
Vlad’s facial scruff hides his age, but I’m guessing he isn’t much older than me. I get the sense that he’s had a much different life than I have, though.
He wordlessly analyzes me for a moment with those same cold blue eyes as his father, and then turns and begins relaying something in Russian to Andrei. I’m pretty sure I hear, “Another dumb American to deal with.”