by Leslie North
"Does this have… is that vodka?" she exclaimed incredulously.
Vlad shrugged. It was as much a morning staple to him as cream was to professionals who had less vital business to attend to.
"You cannot come into the gallery if you are intoxicated," the woman said, delivering her verdict in a clipped procession of words.
Vlad raised an eyebrow. "Can't I?" He didn't bother correcting her assessment of his sobriety.
The woman fisted her knuckles on her diminutive hips. Any pair of hands could get lost in a set of curves like that, he mused privately. "No, you cannot," she emphasized. "This is my family's gallery, and I won’t have someone like you…that is to say…there’s been enough damage for one day."
There were two details in particular about the woman's comments that Vlad found far more interesting than her refusal to let him enter: one was her personal relationship to the gallery, and the other was her remark concerning someone like him. There was no mistaking the resentment in her tone. It may have been his intention to keep a low profile while visiting the gallery, but this woman saw right through him.
Then again, maybe it was the sharp sting of the vodka on her tongue that clued her in.
"Anyway, we're closed," she continued as she turned to go. His first sight of her had been from a distance, but he had yet to see her from behind. Vlad tipped his sunglasses to take in the view. Long, shapely legs stretched themselves to the limit of her slate-gray pencil skirt, hugging the rolling cleavage of her tight end. Now his thoughts about what lay beneath this woman's clothes were anything but tame.
He was moving before he even knew he was in pursuit.
Vlad reached out a hand and caught the heavy door, pulling it open with ease. Looking over his shoulder, he watched his bodyguard turn and return to the car. His men were good at their job but given recent events, they were more cautious than usual, which annoyed him. He was more than capable of taking care of himself in most any situation. Turning back to the door, he followed her inside. The woman walked double-time, casting a hasty glance over her shoulder as his long strides ate the distance between them.
"I said we're closed!" she snapped. She was as brave in her dealings with him as she had been with the three movers. The fact that she wasn't afraid of him—especially considering her hint that she knew what he really was—made Vlad much more willing to push the boundaries of their interaction.
"I'm not here to look at art," he replied. He wasn't used to having doors closed on him. He also wasn't used to hearing the word no, especially from a woman. "I'm here to speak to the owner. You just told me you're an O’Connor."
"I know what you're here about, Mr. Mafioso." She stopped and turned sharply on her heel, crossing her arms beneath her breasts. This new view from the front was enough to halt Vlad in his tracks. Luckily, she didn't appear to notice where his eyes were directed. He was certain him appraising her like she was one of the pieces she kept on display would have further hurt his chances of getting answers.
"I highly doubt that." His voice was cold enough to chill the faint wisps of steam still rising from what remained of his coffee. It was a new tone of voice, one the woman hadn't heard before but she didn't shrink from it. If anything, she looked suddenly curious… and curiosity could lead to a potential opening, if gentlemanly manners couldn't.
"I know you're here about money," she stated. "Specifically, you're here about the money that my family was foolish enough to accept from Sergey Karev, who I assume is your boss. How is he, by the way?"
She might as well have fired a bullet pointblank into his chest. If he had not been expecting this reception, then Vlad certainly hadn't expected to be the one to deliver the news.
His lips thinned into a humorless smile. "Dead."
He could see that the revelation stunned the capricious, curvaceous woman. Her steely expression faltered, and she blinked her big brown eyes. The hard front she had been putting up all but disintegrated.
"I… I didn't know," she confessed. "How? When?"
One of these questions Vlad wanted answered himself. Until then… "A month ago," he replied. "I'm surprised the news hasn't reached you."
"No. No, it hadn't." Her breasts swelled as she clenched her arms. "I'm guessing Father knew, but he must have been keeping it from me. Not just to avoid an 'I-told-you-so,' but to protect me. He knows how worried I've been about this whole arrangement."
The woman unlaced her arms only long enough to reach out and straighten a nearby vase. Vlad watched her from behind the dark shield of his sunglasses. Was that a nervous tell, and was this all a show for him? Was it possible this woman was only feigning ignorance, or had she really not known that the Pakhan—and her gallery's primary investor—was murdered?
Was it possible she knew, too, about the folded note secreted inside his pocket that her father had sent to Sergey the day he died?
For now, he avoided giving voice to any of his more private, pressing questions. "What's your name?" he asked.
"Madison O’Connor," she replied almost reluctantly. "What's yours?"
"Vlad Ivankov Karev."
"Karev… wait, Karev?" she echoed. Vlad didn't bat an eye, didn't tip his sunglasses, didn't give away any physical indication that her surprise at his identity was news to him. He had guessed as much from their first meeting and her dismissive treatment of him. He tried not to take it personally, considering he hadn't been aware of her connection to the gallery either. If anything, he found her disrespect refreshing.
"Sergey was my employer. He was also my father."
Madison O’Connor's expression was a shuffling deck of emotions. He thought he saw a look of remorse for his family tragedy flash across her face, before it was replaced in the next instant by a look of intense thoughtfulness. Clearly this woman didn't like that his family business was so deeply entangled with hers. Vlad couldn't tell if she was deciding whether to be cunning, but he was willing to find out.
"Shall we continue this conversation somewhere else?" he suggested.
"Yes… yes, I think that's a good idea," Madison said as she turned away. "This way to my office, Mr. Karev."
Vlad's mouth, the same one that had voiced the idea so swiftly met with Madison O’Connor's stamp of approval, flexed slightly, inching toward a smile. It wasn't the only stamp the woman left him with. As he followed after her, he rotated his coffee cup idly, musing on the light lipstick print leftover from their earlier exchange outside.
His wasn't the only mouth met with approval.
Grab your copy of Her Ruthless Russian from www.LeslieNorthBooks.com