“We could provide them his description.” Ross fiddled with the handle of his coffee cup, trying to ignore her lips, her hair...her.
“The only likely result from a police report would be a newspaper story about how the famous Stephen Dagger got involved in a brawl. Unless your goal is publicity, I don’t see how calling the police will do any good.”
Ross definitely didn’t want publicity. In his situation, with the new contract, any publicity was not good publicity. “If the whole thing is just a one off, it doesn’t matter, but what if it’s not?”
“A one off?” Mo asked.
“Something that happens once.”
“What if it isn’t just a one off? That fellow may have something to do with the mysterious client who allegedly hired your agency to investigate me.”
"I don’t see the connection." Mo shook her head causing a section of her long hair to sweep forward again. “Gigantor had to have mistaken me for someone else.” She nodded. “Yeah, it was clearly a case of mistaken identity.”
"You hope," he muttered.
"Yeah," she admitted.
“Did he say anything that would provide us any sort of clue about him?” Ross asked.
“He said something that sounded like sucker. And he mentioned wanting to find something or someone. Understanding him was difficult. He had an accent that sounded Slavic or Russian… or maybe Greek. I couldn’t tell. Everything happened so fast.”
“He sounded sort of Russian to me,” Ross commented.
Mo lapped at another spoonful of ice cream. “Come to think of it, when the agency did an investigation at a strip club owned by a Russian, I found out that Sooka means bitch. I suppose Gigantor could have been calling me a bitch and that would mean he’s Russian. Oops, I said bitch.” Mo held a hand over her mouth and then relaxed after a second. “Oh well, it doesn’t count as a slip since I was translating.”
“Do you have any reason to think Russians are involved with the client who hired you to break into my car?” Ross tried to take his eyes off her lips.
She waved her spoon at Ross. “Don’t go thinking you’re going to use that guy to bootstrap your way into going with me to talk to Clarence.”
Mo shook her head, throwing her hair back and out of the way again before taking a fourth mouthful of the obviously delicious concoction. Ross wanted to run his fingers through that length of silky brown hair, wrap the strands around his hand, pull her toward him and then…strangle her. She was completely impossible.
Although she had agreed to have lunch, with Ross paying of course, Mo refused to even consider allowing him to be involved in discovering what was behind the attempted break-in of his car. The only information she’d reveal was that the agency receptionist had relayed the assignment. None of his logical arguments had yet penetrated her utterly illogical head.
Mo placed her lips around another bite.
“Mmmmmm. Youshouldtrysommmme,” Mo said with her mouth full.
“No thanks.” Ross sipped at his tasteless coffee.
Mo picked up a fork and then mashed the utensil into the crumbs on the plate with the obvious intent of finishing off the remnants.
Ross knew he wouldn’t be able to stand it if her next move was to lick the remaining ice cream from the plate. It would bring to mind too many other uses for that tongue.
“Would you like another dessert?” He asked, arching his eyebrows at her.
Mo dropped the fork and it clinked noisily as it landed on the plate. “No, I would not.” Her tone was indignant. “But thanks a lot for implying that I’m fat.”
“I did not imply any such thing. To the contrary. You have no need to diet…and I already told you that you’re quite beautiful.” Ross immediately regretted revealing so much.
“Thank you." Mo smiled. "But for the final time, I am not going to take you with me to talk to Clarence. Plying me with fattening deserts is not going to get me to agree to compromise my ethics. Flattery will not work either.”
Her words catapulted his mind into thoughts of the compromising positions Ross would like to contort Mo into. The urge to strangle Mo was quickly slipping away to be replaced by a craving to spank the brat. Hmmmm. The right type of spanking could be ideal.
“What do your ethics have to do with it?” he asked.
“I don’t know what explanation Clarence is going to give for the car break-in thing. What if he reveals confidential client information? It would be unethical for you to hear that kind of information.”
“I could go with you and wait outside. You talk to Clarence first. You can sort out the confidential information and let me in on the rest.”
Mo tilted her head. "That might work."
Ross pressed his advantage. “We don’t know for certain that thug isn’t connected to the assignment. Things could get dodgy. What if Gigantor comes back and you’re alone?”
“I guess you have a point,” she admitted with a frown. “In that case, it might be wise to have more backup available.”
Ross felt a jab right in his ego. Mo evidently thought he wouldn’t be able to protect her. Her hand slid on his as it rested atop the restaurant table. The contact sent waves of tingling sensation up his arm.
“I just meant that I don’t want you to get beat-up again," she added.
With that uppercut to the chin his ego crashed down and he jerked his hand away. “Brilliant. Just brilliant.”
A couple of elderly women at the next table seemed to be taking particular interest in their conversation. One pointed at him surreptitiously while whispering to the other. Ross thought he heard the word “Dagger”.
“I didn’t mean anything insulting. That guy was so big anybody would…” Mo tried to explain.
The second elderly woman started scrounging around in her purse and finally came out with a pen and paper. She looked at Ross and then whispered behind her hand to her friend.
“Bloody hell.” Ross stood. He reached in his pocket before coming out with a money-clipped wad of cash. He drew out several bills and then threw them down on the table. “I’m coming with you to meet with Clarence.” He pulled Mo out of her chair. “Let’s go. I’ll drive. We can come back for your Mini later.”
For once the minx didn’t argue with him as she followed him to the car.
Chapter Six
“Life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness,” Kubikov said, addressing the five men opposite him in his deep, heavily accented voice. A sun’s ray glistened on the shimmering surface of the Koi pond. He reclined back into the patio chair and pushed dark sunglasses into place on the bridge of his nose. “They are the rights from the constitution of this country, yes?”
“Da,” said one man.
Kubikov grimaced and looked at the sky. “That is rhetorical question, Ivan.”
Ivan’s unibrow crinkled in confusion.
“Bruno.” Kubikov spoke to the smallest of the five. “Explain to Ivan what rhetorical means.”
Bruno shifted from his right foot to his left and looked to the man at his side—a blond farm boy type—who shrugged. Bruno turned back to Kubikov. “I’m not sure, boss,” he said with a squeaky southern drawl.
“Geerya.” Kubikov pressed an index finger to the bridge of his nose. The dumbos in his employ were giving him an aneurism. “A rhetorical question is one that doesn’t need an answer.”
“Da.” Ivan nodded.
But from the blank expression on his face, Kubikov could tell that Ivan didn’t understand.
Kubikov shook his head. “Why do I have to work with morons?”
Bruno hurried to answer, “Maybe ‘cause—”
“That is also rhetorical, Geerya.”
Bruno pursed his lips shut and nodded. The other four copied the motion.
“Now. Where was I?” Kubikov asked. “Ah yes. My happiness. I am in the pursuit of my happiness.”
“Yes, sir.” The five men spoke in unison.
Kubikov jumped up and stretched to his full Napoleonically shor
t height. “That wasn’t even a question. Shut up and listen to what I say.”
“Yes, sir.”
A tirade of obscenities erupted from Kubikov and he stamped a tiny—for a man—foot. “I say shut up,” he shouted, pulling a Glock from a holster he wore as a belt above the waistband of his shorts. “I’m going to shoot the first one who says one more word. So don’t say anything, Khaarasha? Okay?”
“Okay,” said Bruno, twitching nervously.
“What did I just say?” Kubikov demanded.
Kubikov fired the Glock into the ground near the man’s feet. A fragment of cement splintered, flew up and struck Bruno’s bare forearm, drawing blood. The thug pressed a hand over his mouth to suppress a cry of pain.
“Now, shut up,” Kubikov shouted again.
“Yuri,” a high-pitched voice called from the interior of the house through the open sliding glass door. “Don’t you shoot near that pond. It cost a fortune to replace the filter pump the last time.”
Kubikov ignored his wife's shriek and sat down again. “I have the right to preserve my life and my liberty. Praveelnee?” He stared at the men expectantly. “Correct?”
There was absolute silence for long seconds.
“Right?” He waved the gun at them.
Bruno took a tentative step forward. “Are we supposed to answer?”
“Of course.” Kubikov gave a curt nod.
“Yes, sir,” the men chorused, saluting as if they were in the military.
“Yuri,” his wife's high-pitched voice called again. “Did you take out the garbage yet? The can stinks. Am I supposed to do everything in this house?”
Kubikov groaned. Sooka. He’d like to shoot that bitchy woman.
“Yuri,” she squawked. “The garbage. Take it out.
“Not now,” Kubikov shouted in reply. “I’m in an important meeting.”
“Yuri, do you hear me?” she demanded.
He fingered the trigger on the Glock. He itched to do it. Kubikov would have shot her long ago, but since she was the mother of his son he had to avoid murdering her if at all possible.
“What if I get the garbage?” Bruno asked as he eyed Kubikov caressing the gun.
“No.” Kubikov shoved the Glock back into his holster. “Betsy doesn’t like business associates in house.”
“Yuri!” Betsy shouted again.
“Shut up, woman,” he shouted toward the house. “I'll take out the garbage when my important meeting is over.”
A woman with blonde hair emerged through the sliders wearing a bubble gum pink wrap dress, which revealed her ample cleavage. She carried an infant in her arms. The four-inch heels of her sandals clicked on the cement.
“Stop shouting, Yuri. You’ll wake the baby.” She strode to Kubikov and plopped the sleeping infant into his arms.
“I’m going shopping. Watch him.” She walked back toward the house, hips swaying. At the door she glanced over her shoulder, turning a glare on Kubikov. “You better have filled the gas tank on my Corvette," she warned before disappearing into the house.
Shaking his head of black cropped hair, he stared downward for a moment. “I shouldn’t have married that zhyeanshcheena. She’s always been a diva.” Kubikov gazed lovingly into the face of the baby. “But all I suffer is worthwhile for my little Misha. Besides, she’s very good at the pawkhats—you know. The sex.”
Ivan scowled as he shifted his legs apart to a wide stance and crossed his arms over his chest.
He had never liked Betsy, Kubikov thought.
The blond farm boy type snickered.
Anger shot through Kubikov like a taser, but he rose slowly from the chair.
“You.” Kubikov jerked his head toward the blond. “Have the respect for the mother of my son.”
The blond backed away, holding up his hands in surrender.
He turned to Ivan. “Why didn’t you follow my instructions? For the first time you failed me. You let them get away.”
The big man hung his head. “Da. Sazhalets. You're right, brother.”
“And what about how this blackmailer got my information?” Kubikov demanded, getting into his face.
Ivan continued to stare at his feet. “I’m sorry. I not know.”
Kubikov shook his head slowly. “Apology is not good enough. Punishment is needed.” He crossed to a playpen set up in the shade and lowered the baby to the soft pad inside. “I must make an example of someone. I cannot look weak to my enemies,” he said as he stared down at his son. The baby continued to doze peacefully. Kubikov loved the innocent happiness in his son’s sleeping face. “Someone is always trying to knock you out of first place in my business. Perception is one hundred percent of the equation. If I look weak, I am a hundred percent weak. I must always be one hundred percent strong for my Misha.” Kubikov straightened and turned. “Right, Bruno?”
Bruno nodded.
“Da. Okay,” Kubikov announced to the group, pointing at Bruno. “Feed him to the alligators.”
“Me? I’m not the one who failed. I wasn’t even there.” Bruno’s head swiveled back and forth. Two thugs grabbed Bruno by each arm and the smaller man began to thrash between them. “Ivan failed!”
“True, but he is my brother. I can’t kill him. I kill you instead." Kubikov turned to the others. "You know where to take him.”
“What if the alligators there won't eat him?” Ivan asked.
“Then take him to where the teen got eaten by alligator last year. Those alligators, they are hungry.” Kubikov’s eyes rolled upward. “Tie a piece of chicken around the neck of Bruno.”
“Da,” said Ivan.
Kubikov looked to the sky. “Must I think of everything?”
“Da.”
“Agggghhhh.” Kubikov would have taken out the Glock and shot someone…but the sound would wake Misha. So he merely snapped his fingers and the two thugs dragged a protesting Bruno away.
Misha began to cry. Before Kubikov made it to the playpen, the cry turned to a wail.
“Now look what you did?” Kubikov yelled at the departing men. “You wake the baby.”
He turned back to Ivan and put a hand on the big man’s arm. “This situation is out of hand, brother. I want the blackmailer and the documents he took."
“More bad news, boss. I not tell others, but last time I talk to contact he threatened me. He say Dagger will turn records over to police if no money received by tomorrow.”
Kubikov fired a round into a nearby tree. “You're just telling me this?”
Strangely, the baby stopped crying at the booming sound of the shot.
Ivan stared at him quietly. “Why don’t you pay the money? Then he go away.”
“I not submit to blackmail,” Kubikov answered. “Get my documents. Get Dagger and his girlfriend.”
“Da.” Ivan started to walk away, but Kubikov pulled him to a stop again.
“Don’t fail me," Kubikov warned.
Ivan nodded.
“This time if you fail, I not know what I do. Brother or no brother.”
* * * * *
Mo's proximity was doing things to Ross's senses. He couldn't seem to get the thunderous beating of his heart to calm despite several deep breaths.
“Should you be doing that when you have a girlfriend?” Mo asked as they walked toward Ross’s Mercedes.
“What girlfriend?” Ross asked as he scanned the streetscape.
“I read the magazines. I see the articles about you and your girlfriend," Mo said. “You shouldn’t be flirting with me when you have a girlfriend.”
He stopped and turned a penetrating glare at her. “I don’t have a girlfriend and I’m not flirting with you.”
“What would you call it when a man has his hand where your hand is?”
Ross looked down. Oh Lord. He was pushing Mo along with his hand firmly pressed to her posterior. He hadn’t realized what he was doing. Ross was so fixated on Mo’s bum that he had touched it unconsciously. He definitely had to get away from this woman. Once
he found out who wanted to break into his car, he’d never see or think about Imogene Tuttle again.
He jerked his hand away as if touching her stung his skin. “I’m terribly sorry.”
Mo laughed. “It’s all right. Now I can say that I’ve been groped by a celebrity.”
“Yes. Be certain to tell the tabloids all about my behavior.” Ross grimaced. She’d probably earn a pretty hefty sum with her story. Done up right, the tale would make a sensational read. He could almost see the headline of the National Star: Ross Grant’s Asparagus Obsession.
Mo stopped a few feet from the car. “I was just joking."
"The tabloids aren't funny." He knew he was being boorish, but Ross couldn’t seem to help himself. He hated the invasions into his privacy that were the stock and trade of the press. The thought of Mo selling him out to the tabloids hurt more than the many times in the past when his so-called friends had actually leaked stories about him for extra cash.
The tabloids were always willing to pay—even for has-beens. Not that he thought of himself as a has-been. He just hadn’t had a hit in a few years. The expression about kicking a person when they were down was undoubtedly true when it came to the tabloids. In fact, they seemed more interested in following his “exploits” than the studios were in funding his films at this point. Now this Milton character and his obsessive grudge threatened his deal with Nicodemus.
“And what shall I say about the whereabouts of your girlfriend?” Mo crossed her arms over her chest. “Maybe she’s behind this car break-in business. She probably wants to find out if her guy is cheating. And she’s right. Here you are trying to cheat with me.”
“I’m not in a relationship with anyone and, therefore, I’m not cheating on anyone. And I certainly wouldn’t cheat with you.”
“Oh, really.” Her face changed from hurt to angry. "Isn't your girlfriend's name Heather something?"
“Davies,” a third voice piped in from behind them. “Heather Davies. Where is the lovely Heather Davies, Mr. Grant? Have you thrown her over for Ms. Tuttle here?” The voice belonged to a man. He snapped photographs as he spoke. Ross recognized him from earlier when he seen him in the square across from Mo’s agency. The young man dressed in seersucker with the industrial strength eyeglasses.
In Deep Shitake (A Humorous Romantic Suspense) Page 7