The song came to an abrupt end, and Grant hopped off the stage amidst the applause. Sophie’s stomach dropped when he headed straight to the red-haired tramp and pressed a kiss to her cheek. She froze when the redhead popped off her chair, grabbed the lapels of his black jacket, and yanked his lips down to hers.
“Oh my God,” Kirsten murmured. “This is a train wreck. I’m so sorry. I can’t believe it…it seems so unlike him.”
Suddenly aware she’d left her mouth hanging open, Sophie pressed her lips together. Her heart thumped. She looked down to her lap to find her fingers in a death grip on the cocktail napkin. This can’t be happening. This can’t be…
She looked up to find Grant and Slutty Pink Dress pulling away from their kiss.
“He’s holding her chair out for her, like he’s some gentleman?” Kirsten seethed. “That bastard. I’ll kill him.”
Despite her nausea, Sophie noticed something was off with Grant. His knuckles whitened where he clutched the redhead’s chair. His typically cool blue eyes flared with heat, but it didn’t look like passion he was feeling…no…he seemed angry. Yes, that was it—the ripple of muscle in his jaw, the narrowing of his eyes. It reminded her of the look he’d given Carlo when he’d burst into Kirsten’s apartment to find him holding a gun on them. But why would he give that murderous look to Slutty Pink Dress?
She noticed she wasn’t breathing, and forced out some air. The napkin ripped in her hands, and without something to grip, her hands trembled in her lap.
“This is my fault for bringing you here. Do you want to leave?”
“No.” She swallowed. “This isn’t your fault.” She closed her eyes for a second, trying to comprehend the incomprehensible. “I don’t want to go.” She clenched her teeth and forced herself to look back at Grant’s table. “I want answers.”
The older man—the don?—chuckled at something, and his guests all laughed in turn. All but Grant. His full lips slid into a tight smile, but fury kept his eyes shrouded in darkness. Then it seemed everyone at his table stared at him. Had the black-haired man—the consigliore?—asked him a question? A blush bloomed up Grant’s neck and spread to his cheeks. He started to say something, then paused. The redhead leaned in and spoke in his ear. He gave a slight nod, seeming to steel himself.
Sophie felt her stomach drop when he scooped the redhead into his lap, let her head fall back in the crook of his elbow, and lunged down to cover her in kisses. Now everyone at the table was definitely staring. As abruptly as he’d stolen her from her seat, he plopped Slutty Pink Dress back into her chair. The color of her cheeks was somewhere between that of her hair and her dress, her eyes huge.
Kirsten’s chair stirred next to her as she shot out of it. “I. Will. Kill. Him.”
Sophie’s hand darted out to stop her. “No! You’ll break his cover!” Kirsten slowly returned to her seat. Sophie gripped her head with both hands. Surprised to touch coarse black hair, she remembered her damn wig. She never should’ve come here.
“Here we are,” the waitress said, approaching their table with her tray. As she set Sophie’s glass of water in front of her, she asked, “You sure I can’t bring you a stronger drink, sweetie? Looks like you need it.”
She tried not to glare. “No thanks. I need to think clearly right now.” She took a sip of water as the waitress gave Kirsten her martini. Then inspiration hit. “I would like to order a drink for someone else, though.”
Kirsten gave her a quizzical look.
“Sure.” The waitress shrugged.
“The singer?” Sophie said as she gestured to the stage. “Do you know him?”
“Mick Saylor?”
“Yes.” Sophie smiled. “I’d like to buy him a shot of tequila.”
“Uh, I’m not sure that’s a good idea—” Kirsten began.
“And please deliver it with this napkin.” Sophie lifted her water glass to yank the napkin out from under it. She scrabbled for her purse to dig around for a pen. She scribbled on the napkin, then shoved it at the waitress. “Just add it to my tab, okay? And please, don’t tell him who bought the shot.”
“Of course,” the waitress said.
After she’d left, Kirsten leaned in. “What exactly are you doing, Dr. Taylor?”
“Don’t worry, Britney…everything will be fine.”
“Fine? You just saw your fiancé cheat on you, and you think everything will be fine?”
She nodded, watching Grant tap his long fingers on his thigh.
***
Grant wished he’d thought of attacking Miranda with a kiss like that earlier. Anything to shut her up. She now sported a glazed stupor sitting next to him, and for that he was grateful.
“Guess you not in such bad mood, da?” Andrei said.
He drew back in his chair. “How could I be in a bad mood with such great company?” His fake smile dropped when Shauna set a shot of tequila in front of him.
“From a secret admirer,” she said. Her tapping finger lingered on the napkin, and he noticed writing on one corner.
Miranda sat up like a fire burned her butt. “Who’s the secret admirer, Shauna?”
The waitress stepped back. “I’m not allowed to say.”
“Can’t she tell he’s with me tonight?”
He capitalized on their argument to scoop up the napkin and shot glass. When he got a better view of the message, his heart stopped. That was Sophie’s handwriting.
Meet me in Alex’s office, McSailor.
He could feel Vladimir’s gaze on him as Miranda and Shauna continued their bickering, and he crushed the napkin in his hand while knocking back the shot. Ignoring the don’s stare, he scanned the bar, then the tables for Sophie. What the hell was she doing here?
“You drank it?” Miranda hissed.
Grant ignored her too. Where was Sophie?
“Don’t you think you’re egging on this secret admirer?” she railed. “Giving her false hopes? You should’ve sent that drink straight back to the bar!”
Damn it, where the hell was she?
A low chuckle emanated from Vladimir. “You let Samantha talk that way to you?” He shook his head.
Grant gulped. The sick bastards probably wanted him to backhand her for being insolent. “She knows her place.” He gave her a pointed stare.
When her mouth closed, he resumed his scan. No, not that table, not that one either…An Amazon with long blond hair, sitting over in the corner, caught his eye. But she wasn’t as lean as Sophie. His eyes flitted over another tall woman with straight black hair and glasses, a sense of elegance in how she held herself. His chest tightened with frustration. Wait…He doubled back to the brunette to find her eyes ablaze with such intensity that her glare almost plastered him to the back of his chair. Even with red-framed glasses, he’d know those eyes anywhere. He cringed inwardly to find them filled with hostility…or maybe hurt—he didn’t know which feeling was stronger.
His heart galloped, and he felt the burn of tequila threatening to rush back up his throat. It seemed the air around him had disappeared. I’ll lose her. She thinks I’m cheating.
“Are you okay, Mick?” Innochka asked somewhere in the distance.
She hates me. I’ll lose her.
Miranda grabbed his wrist. “Mick?”
He stared at her for several seconds, then yanked his wrist free. “I…I have to use the bathroom. Before my next set.” His chair scraped the hardwood floor as he stood. “Please excuse me.”
Shoving open the doors at the entrance, he veered into the men’s room, telling himself he needed to go there first in case he was followed. But really, he needed a toilet for when that tequila pressing at the back of his throat reappeared.
She’s the only good thing in my life. I can’t lose her.
He made it to a stall just in time to retch. The tequila burned even worse coming back up, and he splayed his palms against the stall, trying to quell the shaking of his insides. There was no food—he’d been too nervous about Miranda to eat
.
Where had his stomach of steel gone? His tough gut was a thing of the past—a relic of his sad life before Sophie. Now he had something to lose—something his family hadn’t stolen away from him, despite their efforts. Anytime he thought he might lose her, it appeared he had to vomit his fears out before they killed him.
Damn it, I can’t lose her. I won’t. I won’t let those thugs take her from me again.
He pulled himself up and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He splashed water on his face, then swirled water around his mouth and spit out. He zoomed out of the empty bathroom and was grateful there were no Russians in the hallway. He turned toward the hotel lobby and froze when he saw Sophie standing outside Mr. Remington’s door.
“It’s locked,” she said.
Her gaze seemed softer, not as angry, and he wasn’t sure what that meant. His shaky stomach flipped. Had she already decided to leave him? There’d been far too much between them to let it end like that…right?
Gulping, he whipped out his keys and unlocked the door, glancing over his shoulder before he whisked her inside.
As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he wanted to reach for her hand, but thought it too risky. “Sophie…”
“Shh.” She stepped forward and placed a finger on his lips. “Take some deep breaths. If you keep acting so nervous, you’ll blow your cover.”
His brow furrowed. Why was she being so nice to him? “I can explain—”
“I know that redhead’s part of the act,” she cut in. “You don’t care for her.”
“You…” Relief washed down his chest. He could finally breathe again. “How’d you know?”
Her smile dazzled him. “Because I know you.” She stepped closer to tuck her cheek into his shoulder. “I know you, Grant. I know you love me.”
He wrapped his arms around her, one hand curling over the top of her head and the other resting on her shoulder, pressing her close. “Oh, Sophie. Oh, God, I’m so sorry. When I read what your wrote on that napkin…”
She pulled back. “I would’ve waited to talk to you later, but I was worried about how you were acting. You can’t let that ho-bag throw you off your game.”
“I know…they were asking me what was wrong, and I had to kiss her to keep up the act…” His eyebrows scrunched. “Ho-bag?” He grinned and reached up to twist a strand of long black hair between his fingers. “She works at the front desk.”
She smacked his hand away as she gave him a playful grin. “Don’t touch my wig.” She slid her handbag off her shoulder and rifled through it.
“Where’d you get that awful wig? And the glasses?”
Still absorbed in her handbag, she murmured, “The theater director at DePaul…Kirsten knows her.”
“Kirsten?” He leaned forward, alarmed. “She’s here?”
“Yep. And she’s ready to kick your ass for cheating on me.”
“Ohh…”
“But I knew the truth. I know my McSailor. Listen, I’m sure you have to get back out there…aha!” She came up victorious with a roll of breath mints. “You need one of these.”
His hand darted to his mouth. “Sorry.” He popped a mint in his mouth. “I forgot about that once I found out you weren’t mad at me.”
“I am mad. You were planning this with Bounter on the phone this morning, right? Why didn’t you tell me?”
He frowned. “I can’t. I’m not supposed to disclose any of this.”
“You’re coming perilously close to losing your sexual privileges again, mister.”
He couldn’t match her teasing grin. He sighed as he rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s supposed to be you in there.”
“What?” Her eyes widened.
“When one of them found your makeup and lipstick in our medicine cabinet, he demanded you join us for drinks tonight. I couldn’t let them see you.”
She drew in a sharp breath. “Grant! I’m sorry.” Her finger rubbed her bottom lip, intoxicating him. “I was looking for that lipstick.” She tapped her finger on her lip. “But what about your coworker? The redhead? She’s in danger now, isn’t she?”
“Mr. Remington’s shipping her off to his Miami hotel in a couple of days. She’s thrilled to relocate.”
“Oh, good.” She adjusted her glasses. “You know, you didn’t need her. I could’ve been your girlfriend tonight. Great disguise, right?”
“No!” She jumped at his loud response, and he lowered his voice. “You can’t be anywhere near them, Bonnie.” He clasped her hands in his. “In fact, what are you doing here? This is incredibly dangerous.”
“You’re right—it was stupid. I thought I had to make sure you weren’t cheating on me, but there’s no need for that. I trust you.” She squeezed his hands. “I’m leaving, once I tear Kirsten away from her drink. Just one thing before I go.”
“What?”
She darted into his arms, her hands wrapping around his back. He squeezed her tight, and their bodies molded together. This contact might have to last for a while, depending on what the Russians had in store for him next. Her warm lips feathered on his neck, his jaw, his cheek. Then she nibbled his ear, giving him a shiver.
“Be careful with them,” she whispered. “Don’t go in so deep you lose yourself. Don’t lose us in this, okay?”
His eyes closed, he nodded. He could never lose what he valued most in the world.
She pressed another kiss to his cheek before stepping back and reaching for the door handle. “And get rid of that horrid perfume on your shirt before you see me again.”
As he watched her go, her long black hair swaying over her shoulders, he truly smiled for the first time that night.
16. Contours
FOLLOWING THE CONTOURS of Lindsay’s profile, Ben traced his finger down the screen of his phone. You’re so pretty. Lindsay laughed at Olivia, and her delight made him smile every time.
“You look happy.”
He looked up to see Dr. Hunter in the waiting room. Ben stuffed his phone into his jeans pocket and stood. “Not really,” he mumbled. He glanced over and saw a woman with a blond ponytail watching them from her chair—yet another chick who thought he was a loser, no doubt.
“No?” Dr. Hunter cocked his head to one side. “But that was a rare smile from you.”
“I smile all the time.” Ben plastered a big shit-eating grin on his face and held it for two seconds. “Look, can we just get this thing started so I can get outta here? It’s Saturday.”
Dr. Hunter gave a terse nod. “Of course. Sorry.” He extended his arm. “After you.”
Ben’s head bowed as he loped down the hallway. Great. Now he was being rude, and Dr. Hunter would be too pissed off to help him. And did he ever need help. Good job, asswipe.
Ben collapsed in the big chair, and Dr. Hunter sat on the sofa.
“I apologize for starting our session in the waiting room.”
“It’s cool.” He squirmed in the chair, which seemed to swallow him up. Not only was he a loser, he was a short loser. Why couldn’t he be as tall as Uncle Grant?
“Didn’t mean to compromise your privacy,” Dr. Hunter added.
He sighed. Why was he the one apologizing? “I didn’t mean to be such a jackass. Sorry…sir.” He ducked his head.
“Sir?” When he looked up, Dr. Hunter smirked at him. “Never heard you use that word, either. Does your uncle encourage you to address elders that way?”
“Nope. He said I should use ‘sir’ and ‘ma’am’ for people I respect.” Feeling his face on fire from that cheesy admission, he stared at his shoes.
Dr. Hunter was quiet for a second. “I’m honored you respect me. I respect you too. You’re really working hard to turn your life around.”
Ben peeked up at him.
“For example, you showed your respect by arriving on time for our session. Good job.”
“Well, I had an escort.”
“Did Sophie walk you here?”
“No.” He closed his eyes. “Hans d
id.”
Dr. Hunter sat forward. “Who’s Hans?”
“This guy my mom’s dating. He’s uber creepy.”
His psychologist frowned. “Creepy? How?”
He shuddered. “Dunno…uh, it’s hard to explain—he’s kinda pushy, asking me all these questions…like, listen to this—he wanted to come to my therapy session. I told him no way, and he got all pissy.”
“Did he say why he wanted to attend?”
“He said he wants to get to know me better, or something. But, like, he only met my mom a few days ago, and now he wants to pretend we’re this tight, happy family. It’s bullshit.”
“As I recall, your mom hasn’t dated anyone since your dad. Is that right?”
“Yeah.” He folded his arms across his chest.
“It must be strange for you then—your mom with a man who’s not your dad. It sounds uncomfortable, like it’d be hard to accept a new partner in your parent’s life?”
“But my dad used to have chicks over all the time.”
“Really.” Dr. Hunter sat back, his eyes curious. “You’ve never told me that before. When you’d visit him on the weekends?”
“Yeah, when he would forget to pick me up.” He unfolded his arms and began chewing his fingernails.
“Logan sometimes forgot to pick you up?”…
“Do you know how much this hurts your son?” his mother had yelled into the phone. Ben had been seven, sitting in that creaky wicker chair with his backpack on his lap, his mother pacing the cracked tile kitchen floor. “He worships you! Then you don’t even show up?” As she listened to his father’s response, her mouth pressed tighter. “Well, what am I supposed to do with him this weekend? I’m working a double shift!”
He’d squeezed his backpack to his chest, wishing he didn’t exist…
“Ben?” Dr. Hunter stared at him, his eyes full of kindness. “That sounds very hurtful for your dad to neglect you like that.”
Ben shrugged as he chewed on a hangnail. “It’s okay. He had more important stuff to do. He was working for the family—he couldn’t control his schedule.”
“It’s not okay.” Anger clouded his psychologist’s eyes. “You’re his family. It’s sad he wasn’t there when you needed him.”
On Best Behavior (C3) Page 20